I was sitting in my school’s cafeteria, eating lunch with 42 four-year olds when my phone starting beeping.  It was my husband Joe and he was texting me about the shootings in Newtown, Connecticut.  I told a couple of the other teachers and hid my tears.  Hearing things so awful like this sends me straight into fear.  Fear then overcomes me and I freeze as I think the pain will be too great if I let myself feel it. 
I picked up my kids that afternoon and entered shut down mode with them.  I refused to watch TV, to read on the Internet, to login to Facebook or Twitter.  I built Legos and that night I cried myself to sleep only knowing the bare minimum of what was going on.

But I noticed something interesting about my reaction.  A couple of weeks ago I wrote this post, about a picture I saw of a mother comforting her wounded son.  That picture stirred me so much, a more patient and loving mom emerged.  This was different.  I am a teacher, and I have a son in first grade and one in Kindergarten.  So that afternoon when my kids were bickering, or would not follow directions, it wasn’t a patient and loving mother that dealt with them.  It was a fearful one that unconsciously was telling them “how can you act like that in a moment like this.”  I had to get my act together; I could not remain both fearful and ignorant. Saturday morning the kids and I were doing a Family Adventure Challenge as Joe ran twenty miles training for his upcoming marathon. Until then, I hadn’t talked to anyone but Joe about how I was feeling and I wasn’t sure what was going on with the psyche of the rest of the world.Before the start, there was a moment of silence to remember the victims.  My eyes watered, I brought my boys closer, and I watched the families around me. Every parent there held their child tight and the two women in front of me discreetly wiped tears from their eyes.  I realized I wasn’t alone. I guess we felt the same things: a mixture of sadness for children lost, gratitude for my healthy ones, and fear of something that awful ever happening to us.My boys are clueless.  They have no idea that anything different had happened on Friday and they impatiently pull me to the start line.

It was a seven obstacle course with a 2k run.  The boys did great, ran most of the time, and went through each obstacle.  The last one was called “the Beast.”  It was basically three connected “bouncy” slides.  We got to the Beast with sweaty bodies and red faces but were at a standstill as we met a huge bottleneck. As the organizers tried frantically to correct the situation, they said you could skip the Beast and still get a medal.  I asked the boys what they wanted and they said they wanted to wait in line for the Beast.  They were not going to take a short cut;  they were going to do what they set out to do.  It took close to one hour of waiting, and I didn’t hear one complaint.I realized I cannot take a short cut and pretend the tragedy in Newtown, CT never happened.  I cannot freeze, nor can I shut down until the TV stops talking about it.  I can’t let time pass only to emerge on the other side unscathed. It would actually be an insult to the victims; to protect myself by not learning from this horrid event.  I got home and I found the courage to read on the Internet. 

Fortunately I first read about Mr. Rogers’ mom who told him in situations of injustice or violence to always look for the helpers, there are always helpers. I took her advice and read the stories of the courageous teachers, the principal and slowly I became open to read about what happened without diving into fear.  I didn’t cry, I wept.And later that Saturday afternoon my boys, unaware of the emotional roller coaster I was in, jumped onto my bed where I was reading.  I held them tight, told them I love them and somehow knew that the moment I was in was too precious to not honor.  I put fear aside, and laughed at knock knock jokes I’ve only heard a million times and that I hope and pray I’ll hear a million more.  My weeping melted the ice I used to protect myself from the pain of feeling.  And tomorrow, as I sit in the cafeteria with my crew of four year olds, I don’t know how I will feel but I do know that I will walk through it unfrozen.