And Many More

Year after year we half-ass my son’s mid December birthday. Finally, on his fifth birthday he looked up after dinner, smiling broadly, giddy with excitement, “When is everyone getting here?” he asked. I vowed to try harder, next time.

This past December I nailed down a plan, ahead of time. I arranged to pick up three of his same aged cousins for a sleepover party, complete with a theme. I ordered the deluxe party kit for ten kids, and hid it in my closet for weeks. I even arranged to take the day off of work to go read in my son’s class on the big day. I was feeling proud, and confident he would love it.

It was a cold Friday morning when I arrived at his small Connecticut elementary school, tucked safely in a wooded neighborhood just couple blocks away from our house. I buzzed in the front door and got my visitor sticker at the office. At 9:30 I settled into my son’s first grade classroom, greeted by twenty three smiling faces. I choose two books to read, “Andrew Henry’s Meadow”, followed by, “Awesome Man.” The class thought I was pretty much awesome by the time I left. They sang “Happy Birthday” in English, Spanish, and Polish, before I patted some heads, kissed my son, and headed out.

I was home by 10:15 and immediately set up the decorations. Streamers hanging from the lights, party favor boxes, table set with more Legends of Zelda knickknacks than I ever imagined existed. I was so proud; I took so many pictures of the setup, and carefully instructed my husband to get the picture of Charlie’s face as soon as he walked in from school. I’d unfortunately miss it while I was secretly picking up the cousins from Massachusetts.

By 11am the facts were still vague. I had an urgent message from a friend in London, England, who heard of a Hartford, Connecticut school shooting. I rationalized that I was just at the school, so I knew my kids were safe, as I dug further for any details. By the time Newtown was identified as the town, I was in a heap, gasping for air in my suddenly vulnerable day. It was a town we looked at when we decided to move, the town next door to my husband’s parents, the school nearly identical to the one we finally chose for our kids. The classroom layouts are the same, the town demographics nearly identical. My son is the second door to the right. December 14th, 2012, was his sixth birthday; he is in first grade, my daughter in second.

The birthday decorations continued to glisten in the midday sun.  I reminded myself of how lucky I was that he would come home today. I imagined if we had not been so fortunate. We celebrated that night, tears choked down just under the surface, as far as we could hold them.  “Happy sixth birthday, baby, and many more.”