R was lucky enough as a student of one of our local universities to score a free ticket to hear Obama speak. Lucky for me he wanted me to go. I took our 10 week old baby with me! I knew this was either a really fun adventure or a really bad idea. It turned out to be a fun adventure but a long, tiring one. We stood in line for over 2 hours in the sun to get in. I know it seems like the weather here is nice, but I was not dressed for it and it was HOT. Poor S had two layers on and was pressed up against me in the Ergo. I made friends with a nice group of people and they held my spot in line while I found a spot against a fence around a softball field, stripped her, changed her and fed her – all in front of everyone in this really long line. Finally we were in. Security was not as tight as I would have imagined. The seats were bleacher style and we found a spot on the top row way inside – nice to have something to lean on, but we were pretty packed in there. I decided to ask for a real seat, was told none were available, and then tagged along with a group of volunteers that were shuttled up to some private box type seating. No one seemed to care. My seat was as far back as you could get but the arena was small. I was directly across from the stage and had a great view. One of the Newtown moms introduced Obama. I had a hard time hearing her, but her words were moving and heartbreaking. As she introduced him and he hugged her and she left the stage, I could not take my eyes off of her waking off stage with her husband’s arm around her. She was wearing a beautiful blue sweater. I can’t imagine her devastation. His speech was somber, the occasion for his visit not joyous. I found her again in the crowd, seated between her husband and our governor. Our President spoke of her in his speech, she didn’t clap, she didn’t stand when everyone clapped and stood for her. She seemed to just have her head down, her husband’s arm around her. I heard what he said, but I just couldn’t take my eyes off her. During my yoga training we did a death meditation. You have 24 hours to live, what do you do – now journal it. All I could write about was my daughter. I had to get to her. I can’t imagine not being able to get to her, not being able to hug her. And now there are two of them. And they’re mine. I know they aren’t really mine. Even if I am lucky enough that we all live to be old women, they won’t always be mine. They are their own people, they’ll have their own families. I hope they do. As I listened to our President speaking and saw the many families there who have lost loved ones, I clung tightly to that little babe strapped to my front. And when I got home tonight, I made sure to hug my other daughter so tightly and tell her how much her mama loves her. As I left I felt somber, it seemed like everyone did. Yes, it was exciting to hear a sitting President speak, but it’s really too bad why. A journalist stopped me on the way out and asked me a few questions. He had tears in his eyes and so did I. What did I think of the President’s speech? I admitted I couldn’t get my mind or my eyes off of Dylan’s grieving mother. Did I think the President’s words would resonate with people? I said I didn’t see how they couldn’t resonate with parents. How did I feel about the gun control debate? Guns make me nervous. I don’t know what to think. I see both sides, your right to bear arms, but it’s all just too sad.
Inspiration . . .