Wednesday, April 17, 2013

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The Day The Tears Showed Up

The Monster House sends love and prayers to Boston
Today, I have a post up on Special Happens, (I'll wait on ya, so you can know what I'm referencing, if you want to click over and read before you continue here.) because I specifically did not want my monsters to see it here. I don't let them watch the coverage in Boston on CNN, and I won't let them read the post I wrote for SH. Yet, as I listen to the monsterlettes play in the other room with #1, I feel the need to write a little more. I'm still... just too raw.

I'm still wondering. And I'm still reflecting. And is the day the tears showed up. As I listen to the monsterlettes, I cry. I cry and I ache for the family that lost their son. I ache for the families that lost their daughters. I have vivid video in my head of the mother, sobbing as she tried to have a press conference, trying to tell the world about her daughter. And the only thing she said that I can remember with clarity is, "This doesn't make any sense!"

She said this through sobs that wracked her body, the anguish apparent, her soul screaming because her baby was taken from her with the type of violence that no one understands. And the tears keep coming.

I'm just a small town Momma with a mouth way too big for my own good. And that's okay. But the truth remains. I am scared for my monsters. I am terrified to know that my monsters are growing up in a world  where children are shot and killed at school, and bombs go off at a family event. I am horrified that I am having to create explanations that my little monsters will understand, for things that even adults don't understand.

Early yesterday morning, by accident, #5 saw coverage of a bomb dog working. He wanted to know what was going on. I had to think fast. So I did. "Well! Did you know that even dogs are superheroes sometimes? There are special dogs with super powers that work with policemen and firemen and other heroes for our country, and they can actually *smell*  bombs or drugs or other bad things and show their human partners where to find the bad stuff! How cool is that! So, that dog you see? He's showing people how he does his job!" #5 was properly awed and half whispered, "Cooooool!"

And I hated every minute of it.  I had to explain a bomb dog to my 7 year old. My seven. year. old. I could go into the inevitable comparisons now, with the "when I was 7, I was only traumatized by the fact that my cousins had all the Strawberry Shortcake figures and I had none!". But I won't. Because the fact of the matter is.. there is no comparison.

I don't know how to deal with this. I just don't. Give me an autism meltdown. Give me a sensory overload. Give me an allergic reaction. Give me a significantly overtired 4 year old that wants to eat ice cream for dinner. Give me a poop-splosion. Give me...anything... instead of having to explain what a bomb dog is to my seven year old son. Granted, he thought this was some nifty televised show and tell.  But that's not the point.

There was another 7 year old. He put it better in four words than I can in four thousand. "No more hurting people". And that's all that needs to be said, though the tears are flowing again. Now, we just need everyone to.... listen to the four words and take them to heart.

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