RSG

This morning when I went to drop Mabel off at day care there was a swarm of media trucks and vans parked outside a house just about a quarter of a mile from our house, not even.  Ugh, I thought, definitely not good.  It was still dark out, and the bright news camera lights were blinding.  The shock and horror of the lights would be only a glimmer of the grisly and stomach- knotting event that called the lights forth.

As I drove to work, J called me and said he had just heard on the radio that two children had been found unresponsive in that home.  They had been immediately sent to area hospitals.  Maybe they will survive, I hoped.  I was convinced the perpetrator had been carbon monoxide, and as I lamented the terribleness of the news, my brain went something like this: I know we have carbon monoxide detectors.  Tonight we need to check them all.  I wonder if the testers on them work accurately.  I hope so.  What if they didn't?  I wonder what would be most likely to cause a carbon monoxide leak?  I wonder how many people that happens to a year?  Is the beeping loud enough?  Who would feel the effects and die first in our house?  I shuddered and reminded myself I can't make the event about me, and I can't do anything to change the awful news.

By the time I had gotten to work, every media outlet you can imagine had the updated story.  The two young kids had gotten trapped and locked, and they likely suffocated.  Why does this feel so much worse than carbon monoxide, I wondered.  And then my brain went like this:  Ugh, I wonder who found them.  What does it look like when someone is unresponsive?  The poor doctors who are working on them.  And the poor parents.  How will they ever forgive themselves for not doing something?

By the time the news came around a couple hours later that the kids did not survive, I was nearly throwing up my breakfast.  I shed a few private tears-- it was just so incomprehensible, all of it.  But at the same time, so possible-- so easy-- so accidental: how many times have other parents let their 10- year- olds play on their own?  Probably a lot.  And a long time might pass before you check in on them.  I remember going outside at that age and trompsing around the neighborhood until dark-- with no supervision at all.  These poor parents and siblings and grandparents and classmates and friends and teachers.  It's all beyond devastating.

J texted me a few minutes later telling me his stomach was in knots.  He asked if we had anything in the house that locks like that.  I said no.  We both vowed that we would never take our eyes off the kids.  What a hefty promise that one makes in the wake of something such as this.  You suddenly become obsessive- compulsive nutball parents who won't walk away from your kids ever, ever, ever-- not for a millisecond.  It's all reaction to the tragedy.  You empathize to a degree you didn't even know you could.  You want to reach out and hug these parents whom you've never met, and you want to put your own kid in some kind of safety bubble.

I couldn't stop thinking about how I always do this: I empathize to a level most would probably say is unhealthy.  I found this article online (http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/the-athletes-way/201310/the-neuroscience-empathy) about the part of the brain that feels empathy-- it's called the Right Supramarginal Gyrus.  It keeps us from being too egocentric and forces us to consider what others are feeling and makes us compassionate.  (One theory about sociopaths is that they don't have a fully- developed RSG, but I digress.)

Maybe I have some whacked- out, weird, overdone RSG, or maybe this story hits home more because it literally hit close to home.  But I find I do this over- empathy thing a lot.  I can't seem to dismiss myself from horrible thoughts nor from placing myself in the other people's proverbial shoes.  It feels irresponsible to avoid the media reports because the victims and loved ones don't have the choice to avoid the tragedy.  It's like I feel that to be a good human I need to see all the info and soak it in and feel it.  But I do all this automatically.  It just happens.

Coworkers were all horrified by the news this morning.  And maybe they are just good at hiding it, but they seemed to be able to compartmentalize the sad story and go on.  I sat stifled for much of the morning-- wondering what the siblings of the kids are doing right now; whether those media vultures would be on the lawn when I drive past today; whether the parents are able to breathe let alone form coherent sentences.  How will they ever move on?

I don't think I am special or in ANY way a better person because of my tendency to use that RSG thing so much.  I'm sure it's just a hard-wiring thing that goes concomitantly with anxiety.  I wish sometimes that I could turn it off, actually.  I have a friend who refuses to watch news about ghastly things happening to children-- she just can't go there.  I wish I had the will power to turn it all off and say no because it's not as if my empathy can bring anyone back or change the results.

I guess the argument to empathy being a good thing is that it does make us check our smoke alarms and second- guess our parenting.  But with fluke things like this one-- what gives?  These are the moments that make me feel that the universe is cruel.  And those days are so hard to navigate because you start to wonder what it's all for-- and how you can keep fighting the good fight in the midst of horror.  

I haven't figured out the use of this kind of distant empathy-- when you don't know the people involved.  I will say my heart breaks and aches for these children and their loved ones.  For what it's worth to the universe, I am thinking about and feeling for these people.  I wish I could put that RSG to good use and change the whole thing.  

The Lull

Sorry for the lull.  I don't have a good excuse.  I keep thinking, yes, I should write.  And I choose to grade papers or clean or play with the kid instead.

In short, I am 37 weeks prego and am looking forward to the end.  Not in a dismal way-- in fact, the pregnancy has been mostly fine.  I just get antsy around this point.

Mabel has FINALLY come around to the baby being in the belly.  For a span of months, she would ignore us-- quite purposefully-- when we would mention the baby by showing her the ultrasound pictures, explaining the baby was in my belly, or showing her new items for the baby.  She seemed to sense it meant it would be time for her to share attention, and she wasn't a fan.  Just about a month ago, she started to actually CARE for the baby: giving willing kisses to said belly and saying "hi" to the bambino.  She even tickles or gently gives it a high- 5.  Progress indeed!  And she will smile now and point and say "BABY!" at that ultrasound picture she used to loathe.  Maybe it's just a natural instinct, or she decided to relent.  Either way, we will take it.

Mabel is talking more and more now.  She's repeating us lots, and has some favorite words.  Overall, Mabel enjoys chatting these days.  She's always quieter in other people's houses, but around us she is a chatterbox.  She knows a few of her letters now-- can pick out the letter M from a stack and sings, "Mmm!  Mmm!" and does the same with D and T and B.  She can count to three-- though her favorite number is still 2.  She always has 2 of anything whenever you ask her how many.  At least it will make saying her next age very easy. :)

While Abby Cadabby used to be Mabel's favorite Sesame segment, she whines a little when it comes on now.  She has switched to enjoying the "real life" parts of the show more: the ones where other toddlers and babies are showcased, and the ones in which the Sesame cast members interact.  Alas, the days of the animated parts are sort of behind her.  But she still loves the show-- and on the tired evenings when I need to sit down before J gets home, it's been a boon.

I will write more at another point-- off to clean the crayon marks from the table.  She just colored a cupcake drawing but has not yet mastered the "color only on the pages" precept-- at least Crayola are washable.