My son is napping right now.
I usually want him to sleep as long as he can. It not only means he’s a little less prone to be grouchy later in the evening, it also means I get a few more minutes to sit still.
I want him to wake up. (I am not such a fool as to actually wake him.) I want him to wake up so I can hold him for as long as I can. I want him to wake up so I can squeeze tight in my arms the person I most want to protect in all the world. (I will no doubt feel the same way about his sister in due time, but for now I can rest easy knowing she is never out from under our roof without us.) I want him to wake up so I can tell him over and over and over and over how precious he is.
I am unable to spend any length of time thinking about what the parents of the dead children in Connecticut are going through. I lose my composure all over again the minute I let myself dwell there. So instead I think of the police officers and nurses and doctors and everyone else who is even now doing their best to care for those who might still be saved, and those who will be offering what comfort might be found for the devastated and bereaved. May God keep their eyes clear and their hands steady.
I have no other words. I want to drive to my son’s school this very minute and erect ramparts and dig moats and surround the whole thing with concertina wire. I want to scream useless curses at the unknown name of the broken, broken man who did this.
But mostly right this minute I want my son to wake up, and never ever let him go.