I can prepare her for school, but not for this, not for this.

I’m not sure what came over me at my preschooler’s screening assessment this morning. I’m not sure if it’s how much older she suddenly looked to me, the fact that complete strangers were asking her question after question, or if I was just proud of how well she behaved and responded. I was just so…emotional. She was like a different child. Poised, polite and 100% confident. So confident, in fact, that when she was asked questions I knew were beyond her ability, she would give a quick, self-assured answer anyways. When asked “Can you count backwards from 10?,” she calmly responded, “Yes. 80.”

I couldn’t contain myself. I started to laugh and tears welled up in my eyes. The gentleman across the table administering the test avoided eye contact with me, for fear he would start busting up, too. She passed most tests with flying colors, speech, hearing, eyesight, cognitive ability, but when it came to motor skills, I knew she would struggle a bit. And just as a word of advice, don’t let your preschooler wear cowboy boots, let alone ones that are a bit too large and purposefully on the wrong feet, to a screening exam. Because, when asked to “jump on one foot,” they will fall, repeatedly. But she kept getting up and trying again, even turning her falls into impromptu somersaults and claiming she was “practicing her new dance moves.” Again with the laughter and tears. This time, though, the examiners didn’t share my humor. They were concerned. “Let’s have her take her boots off.” She tried again, in her pink socks, and couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. The woman began writing down notes, and gave me a quizzical look. “Do you know that she has flat feet?” Hmm…Well, I kind of knew that. I mean, she has her daddy’s feet, and his are as flat as the prairie outside our window.

“She’ll need to wear special insoles, and the absolute worst thing she can wear is cowboy boots. Especially when they’re a little too big.” Oh…I felt silly. I mean, she’d gotten so many compliments on her new pink and brown boots, and she’s so darn proud of them. It kind of broke my heart a little.

And now, just now, in the middle of writing this post, I got a call from a friend. Somehow, I didn’t yet know about the Connecticut school shooting. I’d been gone all morning, didn’t listen to the radio, and didn’t catch it online before sitting down to write. No, I feel sick. Sad. Scared. I am so scared. Here I was making sure she’s ready to go to school in a year and half, ready to comprehend, ready to learn. But how can I prepare her for THIS? How can I prepare? It’s terrifying. This was a small town, not unlike my town. A kindergarten classroom, where her greatest fear should be getting a snack she doesn’t like or skinning her knee on the playground, not being gunned down. Gunned down. It’s incomprehensible. 

I went to my daughter, watching Pocahontas on the living room couch, and asked her to pray with me. I was honest with her about why mommy was so sad. I told her some children died, children not much older than her, but I didn’t share the circumstances. I pressed my forehead against hers, and tried to mutter something to the heavens that would offer someone a measure of comfort. All the while, she kissed my face, my hands. I know I shouldn’t let fear grip my heart, shouldn’t let the enemy control my actions. But I can’t help by ask why. WHY?! I have no answers, just an empty feeling. Blackness. Nothing else really seems to matter right now, except holding my babies. Love can be the only way through this tragedy, so I’ll give and give as much as I can.