You can honor grieving mothers by saying their child’s name 

Content warning: Discussion of school shootings and child loss ahead.

You’ve said your child’s name a trillion times, a billion ways. You feel you’ve said it a million times today, alone.

There’s the way you say it when you call them in for dinner and it’s mac and cheese night but they don’t know it yet, and even though it’s a hectic, dreary Thursday night, their smile lights up the kitchen, stopping time for just a moment. There’s the way you say it, then, when you’re trying to wipe the cheese sauce and ketchup off their face and they won’t stop turning their head.

You say it in humble excitement. You say it in gentle exasperation.

There’s the way you say it when you check in at the doctor’s office. It reminds you of the way you said it to the first nurse who came into the room after you gave birth. “What’s the name?” she asked as she took your blood pressure. And it felt like magic as it left your lips for one of the very first times.

You say it routinely and matter-of-factly, and you say it with a wholesome and simple pride.

There’s the way you respond when a grandmotherly-like woman asks you in the canned good aisle of the grocery store.

There’s the way you whisper it in the middle of the night as you touch a damp forehead and promise to return with the thermometer and Tylenol and a cool washcloth.

You say it cheerfully and you say it tenderly. You say it in all hours, in light and in darkness.

There’s the way you say it when they slosh their chocolate milk all over the kitchen floor seconds after you’ve begged them to stop twirling in front of the refrigerator.

There’s the way you say it on a summer night as you summon them inside from chasing lightening bugs, knowing they will collapse onto the couch without changing into PJs or brushing their teeth.

You say it through gritted teeth and you say it lightly and whimsically.

There’s the way you say it on Christmas morning as you ask them to hold up a present, pretending you have no idea what it is inside that box.

There’s the way you say it when you tell them goodnight before they’ve fallen asleep and the way you mouth it into the darkness after they’ve fallen asleep, making sure that if they are finding themself in a less-than-pleasant dream, you are suddenly there.

You say it eagerly, and you say it serenely, and you imagine you say it in your own sleep.

You say it in the car, to the rearview mirror, and you call it in response to someone yelling for you from behind the bathroom door. You shout it from bleachers and sidelines and auditorium seats. You say it in a way that demands patience and in a way that instills calm, in a way that provokes laughter and in a way that compels both apology and forgiveness.

There’s a way you’ve never said it, though.

The way a parent says it as they arrive to a reunification sight, the location where survivors of a school shooting wait for a familiar face.

You’ve never said your child’s name with that kind of question mark at the end.

When you say your child’s name, someone is going to tell you if your child is living or dead.

You arrive to a scene you’ve only ever seen on the national news, never local. It is a horror movie too horrific to be real. You feel as though you are moving underwater and as though time has stopped. Your own life flashes before your eyes because you feel you may die in the next moment. In fact, you have already begun to dissolve into grief just imagining it.

You want to scream your child’s name. There will be fire in your throat, as though your volume will affect your outcome.

At the same time, you will not be able to mutter a sound. If this is your very last moment of life as you know it, a life in which your child IS still alive, perhaps you should savor it. You wonder if the uncertainty could be less painful than finding out that your child is dead. You decide, deliberately and defiantly, that your child has not survived, that if you can force yourself to envision this, it will be too terrible to be true and someone will guide you to the room that houses your child.

If you want to grieve with these parents, imagine—imagine how you are hollowed with terror in the moments before you utter your child’s name in this way you’ve never said it before.

Say it. Say it as you would say it in this instance. Alone in the shower or the car, say it and see how it tastes in your mouth. Exactly how it feels. It will roll through your lungs and reverberate through your heart.

In addition to saying the names of these sweet children and staff members from The Covenant School, say the names of your own children. Say their names in ways you’ve never been forced to say them before.

This is not about you, someone could argue.

But I beg you—make this about you.

If that is what it takes, make this about your children.

Say their names again. Say your own children’s names. Say them in a way you’ve never said them before. Because it is time to take action like never before.

A note from the writer:

I originally wrote this post in response to the horrendous act of hatred that occurred in Uvalde, Texas in 2022. Today, I am re-sharing to express my heartbreak over a similar act of terror in Nashville, Tennessee.

In a simple and primal sense, I believe all mothers are mothers to all children, and I feel it on my heart to grieve with these families this week. In an attempt to even fathom the weight of their despair, I imagined what it might feel like to drive to a reunification center and be forced to say the names of my own children to determine their status – living or dead. When I wrote this, I had just had a baby boy and named him William. I imagined saying his name as though his life depended on the way it sounded as it left my mouth. William. Will. Willie Boy. At The Covenant School in Nashville, one of the victims shares a name with my son. And someone had to say that name when they went to pick him up. But he was not at the church serving as a reunification site. He was at the hospital. He was dead.

I cannot be the only parent putting myself through this mental anguish today. Ultimately, it is what drives me to consider how I will continue to take action to protect my children and my students.

This story originally appeared on Lunch Meat for Dinner: Mediocre Mom Musings