I had been working on a post about Quinn's terrible sleep habits lately, but I just can't bring myself to complain about my lack of sleep or my toddler in the wake of Friday's horror. Not yet, not when so many parents are burying their children the week before Christmas.
When I heard the awful news Friday morning, I fought the urge to drive straight to daycare to hold my own little boy. I picked him up early that day, held him extra close, caved to his requests to rock him "mo mo" (more, more) before I put him to bed that night, found so much comfort in his chubby little arms wrapped around my neck.
I'm lucky I don't have to explain any of this to Quinn, don't have to find the right words to talk to a child about something so unspeakable. Because I don't know what I'd say. There are no words.
Like all of us, my heart is broken for Newtown. I am sickened, and saddened, and so angry. It might take me a little while to get back to griping about a toddler who just wants to cuddle in the middle of the night.