This morning, as I drove into the Seward Elementary School parking lot, Olive said, " Mom, I want drop off."
Meaning pull up to the curb and let me out instead of parking and walking me into the building.
"Ok. Even though we're early you'll have to wait outside for ten minutes?"
"Yeah," she said, scanning the small crowd in front of the school.
When the car stopped, Olive climbed from the back seat to the front passenger one, opened the door, swung her purple backpack on her shoulders and before climbing out glanced at me. "Bye," she said.
"Have a great day Sweetie."
Olive left the car and walked towards the kids milling about under the awning, without looking back. The sun won't rise for another two hours in our northern harbor town.
I lingered there in my car on the curb, no vehicles stacked up to rush me along, and watched my youngest child walk into the mix of mostly older kids.
And then I drove away.
Not so different than any other day, but today, on the anniversary of Sandy Hook, Dropping my (almost eight but still my) baby girl off at school feels like an act of defiance.
I will not bow down to fear. I will rise each day and search for the good in others.
I will eat love for breakfast, pack love for lunch, slow roast love for supper.
And I won't forget. I can't forget.
Sometimes I forget.
(Olive her kindergarten year)
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