Glass House for Sale
I am posting early this week. I know. It is totally bizarre and completely out of character, but my life this week has been plagued in my every waking hour (which is about 72 straight now) with a horrific tragedy. I am sorry to say that there will be little to no satire or sarcasm to what I have to say, because it is of the utmost importance to not only parents, but to the human race. I started writing these silly musings not just because I like to write and it is a venue for venting, but because other parents and people need to share the humor in their lives.

So, I pose a question. What is the job of a mother or father? Or a grandparent? Or an aunt or uncle? A neighbor? A teacher? The word that leaps to mind in most of these situations is “nurture.” So why are we supposed to nurture children, but yet do we not nurture each other?

My family has been so close to a devastating and tragic event this week. The actual details are completely unimportant, but sleep has been an absent bedfellow for the past 72 hours and the emotional discordance rarely leaves my addled mind. This tragedy has reminded me why I left my journalism career 12 years ago, and have only looked back to flex my creative muscles and write musings about the joys in my life. Why is it that when people open their mouths, sometimes unbelievable and insensitive garbage falls out? I have heard outside observers make conjectures about drugs, child abuse, anti-depressants, ADHD, autism, school pressures. Knowing what I do, none of these seem at all applicable to this situation, and most seem even laughable.

Two weeks ago, I attended a homeschooling event with my friends who are embroiled in this tragedy. My eldest minion was being a complete monster. Complaining about the silliness of the event and having to participate in the frivolity. The muttering and grumbling continued for the better part of 30 minutes and my temper percolated with his insolence. My dear friend felt the pallettable tension between us, approached my son as she often does her own children, wrapped her arms gently around his slight shoulders, and with sincere friendship said, “I am sure glad you are with us, Little Brother.” His frown faded, the disgruntled gray cloud disappeared and my heart instantly softened— permanently softened.

I sit with tear-stained face in my own stunned silence and think on these people that I know. The only thing that I have been able to say is, “I want to be just like them when I grow up.” Patient, kind, slow-to-anger, gentle in discipline, soft spoken, charitable, teachers of personal responsibility, intellectually brilliant.

So, in trying to make sense of some of the events, I asked my husband why he thought people judged other parents so harshly. What he said was so wise, but so sad at the same time. “Because people want to be able to separate THOSE children from their own and THOSE parents from themselves.” Now, I will admit that there are some instances where THOSE people who grace the headlines should be separated from reasonable and loving parents, but after being confronted with crime at my doorstep, I am left wondering how many times I have comforted the dissonance in my thoughts by ostracizing THOSE parents from myself through perceived fictional faults.

I have begun asking myself, what I hope for my children to achieve when they leave my home and embark on their own journey into adulthood. The answer was obvious, I wanted them to be confident INDIVIDUALS with a true moral compass to guide their decisions. As I watch my minions grow from blissfully sleeping infants to not-so-blissful teens, I realize that this entire exercise in parenting is about establishing individuality and independence. This means at some point, those of us parents who are merely voyeurs in horrific situations, need to accept that sometimes actions have no explanation. Sometimes unimaginable horrors are truly a result of independent choices made by an incomplete individual using their right to choose.

Several months ago, I was struggling through the grocery store with a bright pink long-arm cast and an entourage of tired and hungry little minions. Some of them were running ahead, two of them were wrestling while we waited in the express line. The scowls and grimaces from fellow shoppers were like lasers on the back of my neck. As I approached the checkout and unloaded my few groceries, the finishing touches for my planned dinner, and prepared to pay, the clerk quietly and tearfully said, “The man in front of you gave me this (producing a $20 bill), he says he hopes the rest of your day is wonderful.” I was barely able to catch a glimpse of the stylishly dressed young gentleman scampering up the escalator. The smallest influence of a complete stranger altered my entire viewpoint.

I am pausing this week from my musings on mayhem to beg each of you to show mercy to each other. Who cares WHY something happened, care that it happened and that you have the ability to either add to the festering despair or circulate love among those of the same chosen career-- raising generations of independent individuals. When you are in the grocery store and the distraught mother with a gaggle of misbehaving budding individuals slows your speedy checkout, don't think about how you would change the upbringing of their brood or the critical advice you would impart, think of how you will uplift another.