George is teething. My easy-going baby isn't so easy-going right now. He has cut four teeth in as many weeks. Some days and nights he handles it well, others not so well. Last night was a not-so-well night. He was restless, which means I was restless.
In addition to being unable to sleep because of George's restlessness, I was unable to sleep because I read Eli Saslow's article "After Newtown shooting, mourning parents enter into the lonely quiet" yesterday evening. By the end of the article I was sobbing. I felt compelled to check on my children, even though I knew each of them were soundly asleep in their beds (until George woke up 30 minutes later, that is).
I've written about Newtown before, and I think about the families who are still struggling to get through the most horrific of experiences every day. Last night I dreamed about them, about meeting them, and hearing their stories. That dream was oddly comforting. Then I dreamed that Wild Man was one of the 20 children. I woke up crying, sweating, and almost hyper-ventilating. Luckily George was stirring so I could focus on getting him back to sleep; without that task I think I would have had a full-blown panic attack, something that hasn't happened to me in years.
The thing is, I had one sleepless night as a result of a young man who felt compelled to commit an unfathomable act of violence in a place that is meant to be safe, to house the innocent, and to help them grow. I cannot imagine how the parents and siblings of those 20 sweet children and the families of those 6 amazing teachers sleep at all. . .
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