Eighteen

Eighteen. 

Eighteen of our babies ate their cereal, maybe complained it wasn't the right one.

Eighteen of our babies rubbed sleep from their eyes, rushed and laughed and whined and played. They likely tested their parents' patience getting out the door.

Then eighteen of our babies hugged their Mamas and Daddys before heading into their classrooms.

And they will never see them again. 

Eighteen.

My kids' babies will be in an elementary school this Fall.

My daughter is in a classroom every. day.

Many of my friends spend every single day in a classroom. Their kids are in a classroom. Every. Single. Day.

I'm honestly sick of our thoughts and prayers. As if God cares to hear our prayers when we care nothing for peace and justice and mercy.

I'm sick of legislators that do absolutely nothing. That flatly refuse to step across the aisle and have real conversations. Too busy posturing and spewing hate, creating chaos rather than working toward peace. No time for actual problems, we've got imaginary ones to keep in the spotlight.

I'm sick of lobbyists more concerned about profits than our babies. Than our elders.

I'm sick of us.

It's not my church. 

It's not my fault.

Not my neighborhood grocery store. 

Not my kids' school. 

Not my son.

Not my daughter.

Not my movie theater. 

Not my problem.

But it is my right!

And, by God, it's my gun!

When will it matter enough to DO. SOMETHING?

What is the magic number? I pray to God that number is eighteen.