I haven't been able to blog about Sandy Hook. I've wanted to and I haven't. Something about blogging about Boston is helping me to do so.
I need to purge these demons the world keeps tossing into my house. And when I say my house, I mean the house of me.
I still can't really talk about Sandy Hook. At least not directly. And not for very long.
I co-op at my daughter's nursery school. I work in the classroom as a teacher's helper about twice a month. It's all kinds of wonderful. I get to spend time with my daughter (and observing my daughter) at school. I meet and get to know her classmates, teachers, and other parents. I help out and learn a whole lot. I also get a discount on tuition. Win-win-win-win-win.
Not too long ago, while co-oping, the director came into the classroom. Silent. Unobtrusive but fast. Ninja fast and stealthy. And she locked the doors. She then whizzed to the next classroom, I assumed to do the same. The kids playing missed it. I almost missed it. My daughter's teacher, calmly, smoothly, and very quickly locked the windows. The other co-oping parent and I rose like meerkats. Like the meerkats with the babies. We looked at each other. We looked at the teacher. We looked at the teacher's assistant. They told us with their eyes to be calm. To be alert. To stay calm.
I thought about Sandy Hook.
I watched the director pass outside the classroom windows behind a police officer. My lady J announced she needed to go to the bathroom. One of her friends strolled by me, humming. The blood pounding in my head made everything sound muffled and slow.
If anything goes down, put them all in the bathroom. They will barely all fit in there, but put them all in the bathroom and take as many bullets as you can.
That's all I could think about. I thought about you Sandy Hook.
Put them all in the bathroom and fight. Fight. Throw chairs. Don't give up. Take bullets. Protect the babies. Put them in the bathroom.
Our menace was a man who was gazing too long into the swimming pool down the road. He was taken away. No harm.
We were back to normal again in minutes. We all went home.
I thought about you Sandy Hook. I think about you Sandy Hook.
I'm so sorry. I promise I will never forget.
I need to purge these demons the world keeps tossing into my house. And when I say my house, I mean the house of me.
I still can't really talk about Sandy Hook. At least not directly. And not for very long.
I co-op at my daughter's nursery school. I work in the classroom as a teacher's helper about twice a month. It's all kinds of wonderful. I get to spend time with my daughter (and observing my daughter) at school. I meet and get to know her classmates, teachers, and other parents. I help out and learn a whole lot. I also get a discount on tuition. Win-win-win-win-win.
Not too long ago, while co-oping, the director came into the classroom. Silent. Unobtrusive but fast. Ninja fast and stealthy. And she locked the doors. She then whizzed to the next classroom, I assumed to do the same. The kids playing missed it. I almost missed it. My daughter's teacher, calmly, smoothly, and very quickly locked the windows. The other co-oping parent and I rose like meerkats. Like the meerkats with the babies. We looked at each other. We looked at the teacher. We looked at the teacher's assistant. They told us with their eyes to be calm. To be alert. To stay calm.
I thought about Sandy Hook.
I watched the director pass outside the classroom windows behind a police officer. My lady J announced she needed to go to the bathroom. One of her friends strolled by me, humming. The blood pounding in my head made everything sound muffled and slow.
If anything goes down, put them all in the bathroom. They will barely all fit in there, but put them all in the bathroom and take as many bullets as you can.
That's all I could think about. I thought about you Sandy Hook.
Put them all in the bathroom and fight. Fight. Throw chairs. Don't give up. Take bullets. Protect the babies. Put them in the bathroom.
Our menace was a man who was gazing too long into the swimming pool down the road. He was taken away. No harm.
We were back to normal again in minutes. We all went home.
I thought about you Sandy Hook. I think about you Sandy Hook.
I'm so sorry. I promise I will never forget.
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