Bomb shelters: April 9, 2017

Dear Mr. VP,

Finally in my tiny pocket of Massachusetts it is spring. There are flowers poking up out of the ground, it is sunny, and when I drove by a bunch of cows this morning it was warm enough that their smell full-on hit me in the face. My fault for driving through rural Massachusetts with the windows open.

Spring is important to me, because winter is sometimes just too much. The dark, the cold, the grey — it’s too long. By early March my brain is in a near constant state of rebellion and need for warm sun. When it finally comes, it is like all is right with the world, no matter what else is going on.

This year, I’m feeling some of that relief, but I can’t help but notice there is still an undercurrent of dread about what’s to come next, which in past years has been wiped away almost completely by longer days and nicer weather.

See, I’ve been having dreams about bomb shelters. It started the day 45 bombed Syria, and it hasn’t let up. There’s the confusion, certainly, that’s not helping — why are we bombing a county to help kids who we’ve refused to help? Well, because it looks excellent on television and we want to distract from Russia. But you know all that, no need to tell you.

What’s really terrifying to me is that I have a kid in this world. Bombings, chemical attacks, and wars all seemed a little more distant in my pre-G life. When I was in college and Bush started bombing Iraq I was horrified, and I spoke up and I protested, but I didn’t have the same sense of dread that I have now. Because now it isn’t just about the world that I live in, but also about the world that’s being left for the little person who is the literal embodiment of my heart walking around outside my body. 

How do you not feel that same way? What is different about us as people and parents? I wish I knew.


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