It was a positively Norman Rockwell-ian evening: Christmas tree. Fireplace. Piano.
Mommy is milling about, and I am somehow snuggled on the sofa with Julianna (8) and Isabella (5). There are knees in noses, and toes in ears.
The girls know nothing about what happened at Sandy Hook.
Iz: Daddy! You’re squeezing me so tight my head might pop off.
J: Hahaha! Isabella with no head!
Me: So sorry, Honey. I love you THAT much.
Iz: Then, scratch my back!
J: And, my legs!
After a few minutes, the girls drift off to sleep while I reflect on terror and tragedy…
Iz: Daddy, do you know what I love most about you?
Me (tears streaming down my face): No, Honey. (sniff). What?
Iz: …your fingernails….
A perfect response for a day like this.
I squeeze them both tighter. And, I can’t stop crying.
I know it’s never a convenient time to talk about Gun Control. But, could we maybe schedule a sit-down before, you know, the next nutjob takes a loaded weapon into a classroom full of five-year-olds? Because, the idea of multiple kindergarten-sized caskets is horrific.
The father of a five-year-old