20 slaughtered babies.
There's nothing I can say about that. I can't even comprehend it.
I'm ashamed to say my first response was relief. Thankfulness that it wasn't my children in those classrooms. I want to push away the horrifying story, gather my babies close and read them books, feed them pb&j sandwiches, watch them make messes, laugh at their funny childish insights, scold them, play games with them, brush their teeth and tuck them into bed.
It makes me cry to think that there is a little town where twenty families have their storybooks put away.
Twenty homes where peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are no longer on the menu.
Twenty childish bedrooms that are achingly clean.
Twenty homes where faces are twisted and tear stained and stomachs ache with grief.
Twenty moms and twenty dads wishing they had some mischief to scold. Or maybe wishing they been more patient.
Twenty games of Candy Land or even Chutes and Ladders that would now somehow be bearable.
Twenty little toothbrushes.
Twenty little empty beds.
I feel rich. And selfish. And so sad.