We went to the tree lighting and fireworks show tonight after work. I held Smaller on my hip and we danced to the music while watching the embers fall like showers of gold glitter out of the sky. I felt the explosions push against me, booming at deafening decidel levels. I watched the colors reflect off of Mini’s skin, green and red washes flashing off his smile, all little boy joy.
And in the middle of it, I started to cry, holding back tears in the crowd. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head that this was only fun because it wasn’t serious; of how terrifying it would be if those were missiles and ordinance flares instead; of how much some of the fireworks resembled bullet tracers. I thought of Syria and Iraq and the children there under a different type of explosions.
We came home and turned on the news. Paris. God, Paris.
We listened for a few minutes, then started ushering the kids to pajamas and toothbrushes.
“Mom, what’s a “sleeper cell?”
No. This is not how life is supposed to be. We should be planning Thanksgiving and writing letters to Santa, not trying to figure out how to explain mass terrorist attacks at a level a six year old can comprehend.
I don’t want to do this any more.
How are you handling today? Are you okay?