A few days after the Virginia Tech massacre in 2007, I wrote about appreciating ordinary life with my kids as I felt the weight of that awful day during a quiet, uneventful evening at home. April 16 is the fourth anniversary of the murders; I wish peace and comfort to all who were affected by the tragedy.
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4/19/07
Tonight, after dinner, I find myself in a fairly typical moment. My eight year-old son begins the long opening argument of why he should have more dessert. He points at his empty dinner plate. He suggests options. Just a bit of sherbet. One square of dark chocolate. That last cookie. He is walking around the kitchen, looking in the pantry, examining the shelves in the freezer, and ignoring my offer of a banana or yogurt.
The other children chat about their school days. My first grade daughter loved the hot lunch that was served at school. She lists everything she ate. A blue Popsicle. A big salad with croutons. A blueberry muffin. A bag of carrots. Her velvety tone sounds like a waitress listing the specials at a five star restaurant. “And chocolate milk,” she says with a sigh. Her little sister is consigned to her chair until she finishes her milk. My oldest, who turns 11 in a few weeks, goes down to the basement to a bin of cleats, baseball socks, and pants. Tomorrow night he has his first game.
When he was a very small boy, he insisted on wearing a Cubs shirt every day of the week. Intermittently, every day whether it was winter or summer, he would soberly announce: “I got a game tonight.” He’d toddle out to the backyard or the playroom and use his little plastic tee with the enormous white ball and stubby little bat. “I got a game tonight.”
He emerges from the basement with a few pairs of baseball pants. I ask him if they are the right size. “They’re fine,” he says. “I wore them last year, all the time.”
He’s gained something like 15 pounds since last summer. He’s a few inches taller than the last time I marked his height on the wall by the back door.
“Let’s try them on,” I say.
He shrugs and disappears around the corner.
My younger son continues his negotiations. He notes that there is only one cookie left in the package. Maybe, he wonders aloud, it would be a good idea to split it with his brother. Finish it up, you know, and recycle the package?
My littlest still hasn’t drunk her milk. She picks up her glass and raises it, but before she takes a sip, she again tells us about the newborn baby goats she saw that morning at Cosley Zoo. “They were born last Wednesday. In the evening,” she says with authority.
“Drink your milk,” I say.
My oldest returns, wearing a pair of the baseball pants. They are uncomfortably tight and barely reach to his knees.
“I’ll get you new ones tomorrow,” I say.
He nods and then comes in close, putting his index finger on an eyebrow. He notes that his brows are growing thicker. “See, here?” he says.
“People get hairier as they grow older,” I say. That little boy with the Cubs shirts is disappearing before my very eyes.
“You’re getting hairier because you are turning into a monkey,” my littlest explains, glass of milk in hand. We all break into laughter, but she nods to herself matter-of-factly, glad to have clarified the situation. And, as a youngest child, she is rather pleased to have made everyone laugh.
I look at each of them, my heart aching with love. I wish I could grab hold of the evening, freeze it in time. The repeated requests for more dessert, the outgrown pants, the milk dribbling down my daughter’s chin, the dirty dishes still on the table, the upside-down bottle of Ranch dressing, the dog wandering in and out of the room, checking under the table for fallen bits of food. It's beautiful to me and I'm aware of how precious it all is. But I can’t keep this moment.
Usually when time is frozen, it’s because something very sad has happened. A tragedy, a loss. Otherwise life moves on in its ordinary way. Gray hairs appear at the temples where they hadn’t been before. Kids grow taller between the times we stand them against the wall and mark their heights. The bulbs we planted last fall send shoots up overnight and, when we aren’t looking, they bloom. The tragedy at Virginia Tech freezes that terrible morning always in time. Earlier in the day, I've looked through the snapshots posted online of the people who died. They are all children, someone's child, and precious and loved like my own. Children whose parents limited the number of cookies they could have for dessert, made them finish their milk, kept them in clothes that fit, and experienced countless moments of ordinary life with each one of them.
My sons erupt into laughter, yanking me from my thoughts. They repeat their little sister’s pronouncement over and over: “That’s because you’re turning into a monkey!”
My littlest smiles and finishes her milk.
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