"Mommy, I love you as much as the moon and the sun and the planets and the universe!" Oh, how I love him.
I look at my five-month-old daughter.
When I walk into her view, I light up her world, and her eyes become stars. Oh, how I adore her.
Then I look at the news. There has been yet another school shooting, and at least 17 children are dead.
Parents have lost their babies. Children are no longer here to hug their parents. On a normal day, high school students don't usually admit to still needing their parents, but the opposite is heartbreakingly clear in their texts during the recent Florida shooting:
"I love you."
"If I don't make it I love you and appreciate everything you did for me."
I look at the news, and then I look at my kids. I scroll news articles and pictures.
I begin to replace the children's faces on the television with those of my kids, and for a few seconds, I am terrified that I could lose them. Where are they hiding? Are they safe? Who are they with? Will their teacher know what to do? I need to get to them now. I can't lose them.
And then I'm back in my reality of safety, but I can hear, in my mind, other parents crying uncontrollably, hugging the floor, not able to hold their child again. They are imagining the last moments of breath their child took, and they are wondering if anything could have been done to save them. They are completely broken.
I look at the news, and then I walk into school the next morning, slightly numb.
I am a high school teacher, and I am a second parent to hundreds of kids each day. My husband and I have both chosen to devote our lives to teaching.
I look at the news, and then I look around my classroom. Which wall is the safest? Do I have my phone at all times? How could I defend us if we had to fight?
How am I even thinking about this?
Two years ago, we had a serious lockdown at my school. I was having a parent meeting, and I didn't have my phone. A student had brought a gun to school, and no one knew where he was. I remember being so scared, but I had to stay calm in front of other parents and students.
This was not part of my job description. My job is to educate and love. Now it should be part of our contract: protect and defend if an active shooter enters the building. If that were added, I wonder how many college graduates will line up for the job--the battlefield.
The solution to our country's problem is not simple.
"Give teachers guns!" Give me a gun, and my hands will shake too much to use it. Don't arm me.
"Check social media accounts!" You will never pinpoint exactly who will commit this crime.
"Take away all guns!" Those that want a gun will find one.
"Deal with mental health!" Yes, we need more of this, but the reality is that fixing everyone is impossible.
"Fix our parents!" There has been bad parenting for years. How might you do that?
Offer your prayers, and you will be attacked for "not doing anything" by people who are also not doing anything.
What can we do?
We are somewhat powerless. All of our ideas would definitely help, but they won't solve the problem. The world is a broken place, and unless we find a solution to this brokenness, it won't stop.
As a school, we can keep our doors locked, do lockdown drills, teach our students empathy and love. We can report suspicious behavior, speak to parents about concerns, and ask counselors to check in with students. We can and will prepare for the worst over and over again.
No one has the answer, which is why we all post our two cents and move on in a few days when things have calmed down.
The reality is that it is a terrifyingly unpredictable situation.
Until we come up with a solution, which is unlikely, I'll continue to imagine the nightmare of needing to protect my "kids" at school, if the need comes, but also get home to my kids safely that night.
I look at my son, and I look at my daughter.
For a split second, I picture the "impossible," and my anxiety tells me to quit my job and stay home with my kids.
But we can't run from everything. I can't hide from my world.
We can only hide from the next shooter.
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