I woke up this morning thinking about soccer cleats.
My son’s are too small because he’s 9, and 9-year-olds are rapidly growing out of everything, and because I, a non-rookie mom, made the rookie mistake of fitting him in one brand and indulging his last-minute switch to another by grabbing a box without trying them on.
My attempt to save five minutes left me struggling to find a block of time on today’s calendar to exchange them before his first practice because he’s 9, and 9-year-olds have a lot going on for people who don’t even have a full set of adult teeth. I want to wake him up early so we have time together before the morning chaos rushes us out the door. I let him sleep, as it’s the only time I can stare at him without being called a creep because he’s 9, and 9-year-olds don’t have time for your sentimental nonsense.
To be a parent in America in 2023 is a balancing act of fear and empathy, to constantly worry about your child’s safety and well-being while hurting for grieving parents who’d give anything to worry about their children again. We’re conditioned to be grateful that we have something to protect in a society led by people who are willing to let them die. How lucky we are to experience the anxiety of dropping our children off at school every morning not knowing if it’ll be the last time. How blessed we are to keep lying to ourselves just to get through the day in a country where firearms are the leading cause of death among children.
In a few days, we’ll collectively move past the shock of yet another tragic school shooting. Not because we’re heartless, but because detaching ourselves is a handy coping mechanism when you’re forced to fear the unimaginable every day of your life.
This is normally where I’d drop paragraphs of statistics you already know and close with a passionate argument you’ve already heard about why we can’t stop pushing for gun control in this country. But I’m exhausted, like so many parents who spend their days hoping their child’s school won’t be next on the list, and I have nothing to say that hasn’t been said. I just can’t shake Nashville today. I can’t stop thinking of those children or their parents. All 9-year-olds, like mine. All born in the wake of Sandy Hook, like mine. All dead.
He wakes up. I robotically dive into our mundane morning routine because he’s 9, and 9-year-olds still need their parents to get them to school on time.
I try my best not to stare at him too long.
I fail.
Good morning. (Your face is my favorite face in the whole world.)
Get dressed. (You’re getting so big now.)
Comb your hair. (Your hair’s growing so fast.)
Brush your teeth. (I can’t believe it’s almost time for braces.)
Don’t forget to pack your Chromebook. (You’re such a creative writer — do you know that?)
Do you want Cheez-Its or a granola bar for your snack today? (I know the answer is Cheez-Its, but you’re adorable when you roll your eyes.)
Hurry up or we’ll be late. (I wish I could keep you with me today. Should I keep you with me today?)
I love you. (I love you.)
Make good choices today. (I love you.)
Bye, buddy. (I love you.)
I’ll see you after school. (I love you. I love you. I love you.)