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Today, I was going to celebrate being finished with the coursework with my doctorate with a little rundown of Christmas music, maybe even a Top 10, along with some sweet pics of Little m doing the Nutcracker or a regaling tale of a weird gig that I did last week.
But I won’t. Because today, it doesn’t matter.
Because today, I was having a hard time keeping my temper and found myself getting frustrated with my little people. My beautiful, vibrant, curious, intelligent little people. The same little people that I carried inside of me, that I nursed in the wee hours of the morning, that I hovered over when they were sick, that I watch on the playground equipment, that I marvel over their growing fingers and toes and vocabulary. The same little people that I tucked in to bed tonight, trying to balance the need for one more hug with their droopy eyelids.
My need as well as theirs.
I’m lucky/blessed to have put my children to bed tonight. To know that they are safe, happy and loved. To not know that ache, firsthand, of those parents in Connecticut.
And yet I ache, all the same, as I imagine the unimaginable. There are no words to express this, just prayer.
Peace be upon them.
life composing 
I really struggled with the news of the terrible tragedy in Connecticut. Too much violence, not enough light in the world.
You’re a parent. You can’t help it. I was holding it together until I listened to Obama read the names of all the victims. I burst into tears, in the car, with Little c in the back. And the poor lamb was trying to comfort me. “Mummy. Don’t cry, Mummy.”