We are them...they are us

Along with our entire nation, I have lived the past few days in a haze of shock and grief.  This time, the news is unbearable.  This time, the news has hit too close to home.  This time, I am shaken to the core.

I too am in charge of  young children.  This is a responsibility I carry with joy, always mindful of the privilege I am granted as, each day, parents drop off their children at our front door.  My unspoken promise is to deliver each child back to his/her family at the end of the day.

I have come to the realization that providence plays a huge role in my ability to carry out this task.  I am lucky, we are lucky, that we have never had to face evil at our door.

My grief is deep and profound for the teachers who, when faced with horror on Friday morning, did everything possible to shield their children from harm.  At the same time, I am proud to be a teacher whenever I think of them.

I know in my deepest heart that the teachers at our school would not hesitate to do the same thing.

I have wept at the story of Kaitlin Roig, who barricaded her kids in the bathroom and told them, simply and powerfully, that she loved them.  I wish her peace and healing in the days, months and years ahead.  

If we are fortunate, we find a calling in our lives that lifts us above pettiness and selfishness, an occupation that fills our souls and spirits.  I count myself lucky to have realized that living life with children provides this for me. I am certain that the Sandy Hook teachers also found this magical place in their lives.

Over the years I have also come to realize the strength of my protectiveness about the children in our care.  There was a day last summer when, noticing a strange car in our parking lot, I confronted the owner, a man just angry enough to verbally abuse me for asking him to park somewhere else.

I immediately realized my folly in this action, but in the moment, all I could think of was taking care of the kids. 

There are legions of teachers and caregivers who wouldn't think of their own safety when confronted with the unimaginable.  Sadly for all of us, six of those women gave their lives on Friday.  A small part of each teacher's soul goes with them.  We are them.  They are us.  Rest in peace.

We need a hobby...

It hit me a few days ago with the cold certainty of a heart attack. Before we know it, Steve and I are going to find ourselves retired and, without the jobs to which we rush each morning, we'll be spending huge chunks of time together.  By ourselves.  Alone.  Without children to distract us or referee.  And I'm quite afraid that one of us isn't going to make it out alive.

We're going to need a hobby.

Without some sort of shared activity, I am worried that our retirement years may be nothing more than a drawn out period where we co-exist and wait for our impending deaths.  Neither of us does very well with long stretches of unstructured time, and I'm afraid we'll forget about our best selves and spend our golden years bickering and accusing, ruminating and retreating. Without a deadline or the prospect of doing something useful, we'll soon be staging our own nightly version of Who's Afraid of Viginia Woolf?  With less alcohol.

So, to head this off, I am casting around for hobbies in which we can participate together.  We both have plenty of pursuits that we enjoy on our own.  I like to read, but the last book Steve finished was the Toyota owner's manual.  Steve likes to savor a good bottle of wine, but more than one glass gives me a headache.  We both like to ride bikes, but Steve considers each bike adventure a pretend training session for the Tour de France and frankly, I just don't like to sweat that much.

What else could there be?  Ballroom dancing?  Bridge? Decoupage?  Fly fishing?

Maybe we could buy a 100 year old house and gut it, room by room.  We could strip woodwork, patch plaster, peel off layers of wallpaper, install new flooring and appliances and, for a final act, decide to redo the kitchen.  This will force one spouse (and I really don't need to name names, do I?) to do dishes in the basement slop sink for six weeks.  It will be an adventure, each of us honing our renovation skills and gaining new levels of patience and acceptance.

Oh wait.  We did that already.

There's always golf.  Steve plays at least once per week, and I did play a round three summers ago on vacation.  

I took up golf in college because, well, Steve and a few of our beer drinking buddies were all golf enthusiasts.  I wanted to impress Steve and be a "good sport."  By "good sport," I mean "people-pleasing person who thought she had to take on all of her new boyfriend's interests or he wouldn't like her anymore."  Take heed, young women.  You don't need to do this.

Anyway, my first round of golf, a game where drinking while playing is not only accepted but encouraged, consisted of me, used club in hand, surrounded by Steve and a couple of other guys muttering things like "keep your head down," "swing through the ball," and "keep your head down."  I truly had no earthly idea what "keep your head down" meant, but I tried nonetheless.  By the 10th hole, I began to throw the ball out from the trees when no one was looking.  These people are mad, I thought, but it was a sunny day and so I persisted in trying to learn the game.  I was allowed to tag along on the infrequent drinking binges golf outings of our college years.

One day, however, I managed to "keep my head down" and actually produce a fairly good golf swing,  sending the ball a long way off the tee and resulting in the perfect thwak of a solid hit.  There are few things more satisfying.  After a while, I could do this three, maybe four times in 18 holes, and I was happy.  

I played in a league one summer, and I got a little better.  Steve kept coaching me, which most of the time consisted of unsolicited advice like "keep your head down," "you lifted your head up," and, my personal favorite "you have that ball lined up to go directly into the water."  

Let me digress for a moment and say that I don't do well with unsolicited advice, no matter how good it may be. "I KNOW I DIDN'T KEEP MY HEAD DOWN" I would shout at Steve, "THAT'S WHY THE BALL WENT ONLY FIFTEEN FEET."  In my younger and dumber days, when I felt my ability to play golf reflected my success as a human being, many golf games resulted in prolonged icy silences.  I'm better now. 

 (I must credit my mother-in-law for taking the time to tell me things that would improve my game and never once saying "keep your head down.")

Golf is fun, but it takes 5-6 hours to play a round.  Since I hit the ball twice as many times as Steve, I get tired much faster than he does.  And can I just say that golf is filled with lingo that I have a hard time remembering?  Given that there are few women I know who play golf, I usually end up the token female in the foursome.  The talk inevitably turns to "skins" and "I'm pressing you," and I just tune out and think about important things, like I wonder what's for lunch and I hope there's a bathroom on the next tee.  I have an easier time remembering the fundamentals of particle physics than if a slice means that the ball goes to the left or the right.

Still, golf has possibilities as a leisure time activity for us.  If nothing else, we'll have some shame while in public and forget to bicker while we play.  Unless, of course, I hear "keep your head down."  Then all bets are off.