American kids and American guns

What if a gunman shot up your child’s school and what you had left were text messages? Or a shoe? Or just the memory of saying goodbye that morning? Or any of a number of things parents hold onto when they’ve lost their hearts.

I have been horrified by gun violence in America for years, and my kids have both had to participate in countless drills at school over those same years. Last spring, I happened to pick Oliver up from school just before a gunman opened fire on another school nearby. On our drive home, he received a message from a friend asking if he knew what was happening at Sidwell and in the neighborhood. The school locked down (many kids still there), police cordoned off all surrounding streets, helicopters flew in, and ultimately we found that Burke was being attacked. I remember Oliver and I sitting in our backyard, listening for hours to the rotors of the circling copters (we live close to school), and me thinking “shit this was close; keep it together for Ol.”

Yesterday morning, I received the first of the above texts from Jack. Halfway through our hour of exchange, I heard helicopters fly in. Shit.

J is at any age where I rarely share anything remotely private about him, but I feel the need to publish our exchange because it is both so simple and also everything. Only later yesterday afternoon, as we rearranged his room and put out his new plants, did we acknowledge to each other how scared we’d been.

I, he, all of us are so fucking sick of this.

One parent compiled some of what they heard their kids and their friends saying once home. Their words are lacerating, and I agree with them completely.

“Even though no one was hurt, it’s not true that nothing happened. Everyone was terrified. People were crying. It was so scary. I don’t want to go back tomorrow.

Don’t pretend like nothing happened. Why is everyone so numb to this? We are so ***king scared. This wasn’t a tornado warning. It’s not fine."

"If this is so terrible, treat it like something that’s terrible."

"If you go to school in America, this is going to happen. We have been training for this since kindergarten. That doesn’t mean that today felt like nothing. I thought there was a possibility of dying."

"Do you know how long an hour is when you think you are going to die?"

Why do put our children, parents, teachers through this? Why do we accept this as ok? Guns are worth this? “Freedom” -such a bastardized word now- is worth this?

Ultimately, thankfully, there was no gun. But there could have been. And look what the threat of one did. And for good reason. The odds aren’t really in the kids’ favor.

Another day of school lost. Another hope of normalcy lost. Kids hiding in kilns (yesterday). Kids showing substitute teachers how to lower the blinds and properly lock the doors (yesterday). Kids shushing each other (yesterday; all the time). Teachers finding long poles to wield should an intruder break in (yesterday; all the time). Parents showing up at school, terrified (yesterday; all the time). Parents and kids texting, with fear slipping into the efforts to mask it with love and strength (yesterday; all the time).

Today, a long-term sub Jack has didn’t show up. He’d called a kid a hideous slur, so good riddance, but shit. Jack said, so casually it was like a sharp knife to soft butter, “yesterday I could have died, and today I have no teacher.”

What are we doing? WHAT ARE WE DOING?

Netherlands PS + camp

I truly loved hearing from so many of you after my Netherlands post, and I apologize for not having replied yet; we have, in the meantime, gone to Maine to pick the boys up and drive us all home. Since arriving back in MD last night, I have done 9 loads of laundry (no live ticks or empty milk jugs this year; but, more silverware and some rocks, and we’re down three more towels), purchased groceries that filled the cart beyond full (as the evidence below shows), and prepped for a new driver’s license (for Jack) appointment tomorrow.

I am both astonished and delighted by the entrenchment of dirt in what were, six weeks ago, new socks for both boys. A hat tip to you, kiddos, for living big in nature. Some of these are not salvageable, but I’m giving most of them my best effort because they carried my kids through happiness and dirt, tough times and wild life. And all of that is good info to remember and become wiser by.

As the tenth load spins in the room abutting my office, I am thinking about how long ago Europe feels but also how my time there remains sustentative. Earlier this year, my dear friend Amanda said something to the effect of “alone travel is something to always make time for. I do it once a year.” Like me, A has two children. Hers are younger, so I really admire her commitment. But she’s right. Going alone when you are rarely alone is a great sort of challenge. It doesn’t appeal to or benefit all, but for those who crave growth and adventure, such travel can provide the best of both.

In Amsterdam, I came across a pair of shoes I’d been eyeing stateside and really wanted. They’re a Converse-Comme des Garçons collaboration that I just hadn’t managed to find/deal with/purchase before I left. I mentioned them to Tom, and because he is a weirdly good researcher, he naturally found them at a store on one of our favorite streets in Amsterdam: Prinsengracht.

The precise pair I wanted wasn’t available in my size, but I quite liked the available option so brought it up to the register. The solo employee was a typically-tall (tall!) Dutch woman who appeared effortlessly chic though wearing an oversized tee, oversized jeans, and many barrettes in her hair (that seemed unnecessary). At the counter I said, “what do you think?” referring to hip shoes that seemed at least a decade younger than I am.

With total sincerity, she looked at me and said, “It doesn’t matter at all what I think. It only matters if you like them.” Perhaps seeing my American whatever she said, “I love them; they’re very hip.” And I do love that so much about the Netherlands. Practical and honest and largely unconcerned with others’ opinions. It’s all downright aspirational, and I have since loved wearing those high-tops and embracing that spirit. It’s taken me 4 decades to really fly my own flag, and doing so is so GD fun and liberating.

Free Covid tests, please donate blood, no "kids" yet but an odd burn pile

Each family can order four free covid tests, courtesy of the federal gov and delivered by the USPS. Ordering takes less than three minutes. Click here to request yours. They begin shipping later this month.

Meanwhile, you may have heard about the desperate nationwide blood shortage, the worst in more than a decade. Banks and hospital systems usually like to stock at least 5 days worth, but most are now running on a day’s supply extra. If you can, please consider donating blood. You can search for donation sites via this Red Cross link; simply input your zip code. Additionally, many schools and community centers are hosting drives, so you can look for those in your area as well.

Monday was Tom’s birthday. He is very difficult to shop for, so we often get creative. This year, the kids created coupons which Oliver then placed throughout a homemade newspaper (entitled Newspaper) because “that’s where you find coupons, Mom.” Adorable. One of Jack’s, for example, was “I will watch a movie of your choosing without complaining,” as that is a very rare occurrence.

my cake for T

One of my gifts was to arrange for the professional burning of the 4-year-old burn pile we inherited in WV. Everyone just says, “throw some kerosene on it after you’ve had some snow, and let it go.” But it was a big pile, and Tom tends to be nervous, and then when I started asking, people actually said, “Oh yeah, you should call the fire department to give them a head’s up.” And then I called the previous owners, and they (fonts of info as always) told me to call the local company and see if they wanted to use our behemoth as a training fire.

This was getting better and better. So I called the Hedgesville Volunteer Fire Company, and the guy with whom I spoke was so fabulous in all ways. Communicative, responsive, on it. Out they came last Saturday evening, with two trucks, a flame torch, some metal push rakes, and a leaf blower. I think they thought it would take a couple hours. They were confident and eager, we all bundled up to watch. Would the conflagration be exhilarating? Terrifying? We locked the goats in the barn, just in case.

Friends, I am here to tell you that after NINE HOURS, everyone gave up. By then Tom had set up a zero-gravity lounge chair to watch and help, the firemen had made multiple coffee runs and even assisted with a wreck-and-run up the road, and a not insignificant amount of various accelerants had been used. I went to bed at 11p; Tom came in just after 3a. The next morning, he told me that the guys were utterly demoralized:

“This is the hottest, slowest fire I have ever seen.”
”Jesus, you should build a house out of that wood. It does not burn!”
”I wish I’d brought my 50-gallon drum of used motor oil. Man.”

But, I’d say a good 75% has been reduced to ashes, it was a terrific entertainment, we learned a great deal, including how to till and snow plow a dirt ring, and we got to support the volunteers with a donation to the company.

The goats, unperturbed as ever, never made a peep and the next morning simply looked at the smoldering mound and climbed in the Gator.

Apple

No kids yet, y’all. But boy are we having fun thinking of potential baby names. I am hot on Beverly, Angus, and Ethel. Oliver likes Ethel, Skipper, and Belzar. Jack likes Belzar. Tom hates Belzar. We’ll see.

Lastly, an enormous round of applause for Australia doing the right thing and booting Novax from the Open. And yes to this timeline of the past decades. Good god.