Wrestling for Hope
by Cara Stolen | June 2022
I planned to write to you about dandelions and noticing how my 6-year-old, Royce, who will be seven by the time you read this, seems to have finally outgrown his propensity for public tantrums and about how change is slow and gradual, often painfully so. I meant to try and hit the mark of lighthearted (because it’s almost summer!) and scientific (because science is part of who I am and how I relate to the world), and hopeful (because my friend and fellow C+C writer, Molly, is forever reminding me to infuse my words with hope). But then, 19 children and two adults were killed in a school shooting in Texas. And now, the story about my 4-year-old daughter Maggie’s epic meltdown at the library two weeks ago seems trite and unimportant. Because there are 19 mothers in Texas who I can only imagine would give anything to scoop up their screaming, book-throwing daughter one more time. Nineteen more mothers added to the thousands of mothers who have lost their children in school shootings.
I spoke to a man in Colorado on the phone yesterday. I’d scheduled the call a week ago, before the shooting, to discuss whether or not installing solar panels on our shop roof would help offset our rising power bill. Halfway through his sales pitch, I heard singing in the background. He paused and apologized before explaining that his 11-year-old daughter was at the office with him. “I just couldn’t bring myself to take her to school today after what happened in Texas,” he said, his voice breaking.
“I get it,” I whispered back, my voice cracking in turn. “I almost didn’t take my son, either.”
Two parents, two strangers, united in our fear. Of school.
Today was Maggie’s last day of preschool. I picked Royce up from school early so he could come with us to her end-of-year program, telling myself it was because I’m trying to create a specific kind of family culture where my kids show up for one another and cheer each other on. But also? It was because kids were killed in Texas this week, at school, and I just wanted him with me, in my sight, even though last week people were shot in New York in a grocery store of all places.
After Maggie’s program, I asked her what she wanted to do to celebrate. Ice cream? Popsicles? Popcorn and a movie? “The park!” She said. “Please, mama, can we go to the park?”
As an introvert, I hate the park. I hate standing awkwardly by the moms I don’t know, sitting there with nothing to do, and watching my kids navigate awkward social interactions. But because I gave her a choice, because it was the last day of school, and because I couldn’t stop thinking about those sweet kiddos in Texas, I said yes.
So here we are at the park. I’m sitting on a blanket in the shade, trying to keep my 8-month-old, Reid, from eating the grass while staying as present as possible for my big kids. I’m watching Royce on the monkey bars and Maggie on the slide and laughing as the two of them race back and forth across the bridge. I’m giving them high fives and hugs when they run over to where I sit and smiling big when they shout, “Look, Mom!” I’m trying to cover them in my love; bathe them in the gratitude I feel for them. For their breath. For their lives. Because in the back of my mind, I can’t stop thinking about the mothers in Texas.
But in 20 minutes, when it’s time to pack up and leave, when Reid is crying and Maggie throws herself on the ground and refuses to budge, I will struggle to stay patient. I will feel frustrated and angry and might even regret my decision to say yes to this outing. I will forget to feel grateful.
On the drive home, I’ll remember again, and my body will tense from the dissonance of my irritation and my gratitude. It will combine with the tension of parenting, of living, through the past two years and sit between my shoulder blades, where I like to put my stress for safekeeping. I will roll my shoulders and breathe the way my physical therapist showed me—shoulders relaxed, belly soft—in an attempt to let go of the tightness. And I will feel heartbroken all over again for the countless mothers who would give anything to feel that kind of dissonance.
I don’t know about you, but my capacity to hold all this tension, all this grief, is dwindling. There’s only so much room between those shoulder blades of mine, you know? When will enough be enough?
I know Molly would want me to wrap this up with some bit of hope. But the truth is, I’m not feeling very hopeful this week. I’m feeling sad, and bewildered, and weary. But maybe reading this will help you feel less alone as you wrestle with all these same thoughts in the aftermath of Robb Elementary. Maybe wrestling collectively instead of individually is hopeful. And maybe that’s where change begins.
Love,
Cara