What's In A Name?

Around the time that I first met Katie in elementary school (before I forgot about her existence entirely for two decades), I was big on signing my name the way my granddad signed his. The point in the middle of the "W" was aggressive and much higher than the other two ends. In hindsight, my version of it looked pretty ridiculous, but I was proud of it. It was copying something, but it felt like I was doing my own thing. I was eight.

As I got older, my handwriting sort of became more like my dad's. I don't print in all caps the way he does, but when I take the time to sign my name properly, it looks an awful lot like his signature. And we have the same initials. In fact, my brother shares them, too, making it 60% of my family who can claim "EMW."

Then there's the fact that my middle and last name are my mother's first and last name. Connections everywhere.

But tomorrow, I will part with that name, though not the larger connections that have made me who I am for the last 32 years.

Tomorrow, Katie and I will become Katie and Erin Scot.

This has been quite the lengthy decision process. We've thought about it for months, and we just keep coming back to the same conclusion: We want to do this. Like, a lot. Obviously changing one's name is not something to be taken lightly, though I do feel plenty of women across this country do just that daily. Here's where I could go into the absurdly patriarchal nature of our society and how I feel it shouldn't be the automatic assumption that a wife will take her husband's name after marriage (or even that marriage requires a husband and wife, for that matter). But while that is what I believe, it's not for this post. I'm not changing my name because I hate my father. And I'm not not taking my wife's name because of my sense of not wanting to feel like I'm just someone else's property.

We are changing our names because, to put it as simply as possible, we are madly, deeply in love and the concept of having a family unit -- small though it may be -- that shares a name is incredibly compelling. Merritt will still have his father's last name, which is of course absolutely fine. That was his name at birth; we don't have a desire to change it. But the great thing here is that we didn't just randomly pick "Scot" because we relish the idea of saying, "No, just one 'T,' actually," for the rest of our lives. Nope. We chose it because it is Merritt's middle name.

So now we will go from "La Casa de Tres Nombres" to "La Casa Con Dos Apellidos, Pero Uno de Esos Apellidos Es Uno de Nuestros Segundo Nombres Tambien." Or something like that. My Spanish is a bit rusty.

Of course, so much of me will still be a Wilson. I might not sign the name anymore, but you can't change your DNA. The name change doesn't mean I'll stop devouring sunflower seeds or loving Grandma's pool or playing the hell out of a game of Nerts. I'll just be doing all these things as a Scot now.

There's a certain beauty to this that I keep forgetting to embrace because I am so overwhelmed with all the things that come with a name change: Social Security, new driver's licenses, new debit cards, the fact that my initials will now make me a paramedic, and more.

The beauty comes from the fact that, for most people, even if it is a knee-jerk patriarchally-minded reaction, changing one's name after marriage means something. It is not removing individual identity from either of us. We will still be us. But we will have one little extra thing that makes us that much more connected. It is just one extra bond to make. The covalent kind. We'll be sharing our electrons even more now.

I only hope we're ready to hear, "Oh, so you guys are sisters?" for the foreseeable future.

Apparently, Katie and I have given this subject enough thought (and discussion) that we even write about it in the same way. We wrote our posts simultaneously, though independently. You can find hers here.

Come Talk to Me

When I was a kid, my mother took baths. So did Katie's mother. We have that in common. I'm not saying my mother never showered. I'm sure she did. But what I remember are the baths. And I specifically remember that when she'd go off to take a bath, she'd say to my father, "Come talk to me." And he would. She'd lay in the tub, and they'd talk about, I guess, whatever had happened that day. 

Now, I've never been a fan of baths. They seem great at first. You get that water nice and hot. Maybe you even light a candle. And as you're waiting for the tub to fill, you imagine how relaxing and wonderful it's going to be. But once you're in you realize that you're just sitting in a quickly-cooling puddle of your own filth. And the glamour wears thin.

As a child, I never really understood why my mom wanted my dad to come talk to her while she bathed. What was the point? Didn't she want to be alone and relax? But now that I'm all grown up, I get it. And even though I take showers -- and quick ones at that -- I still find myself saying to Katie, "Come talk to me." And if she can, she does. 

There is something so comforting about just having a conversation while I'm in the shower. It doesn't matter what we talk about; it's just the idea that she's there. She'll tell me about a phone call she had earlier or about something Merritt did. I'll open the shower door and ask her if my thighs are looking better lately. She'll tell me that they are, but that opening the door has now fogged up the mirror, so I should quit that. And then sometimes she joins me, even though we've gotten to the point that, while we recognize that showering together can certainly have its sexy moments, it usually just means one person is constantly freezing. And ain't nobody got time for that. So we work better when one of us sits on the (closed -- sometimes) toilet or plucks random hairs (it happens; get over it) and chats while the other enjoys her shower. 

So it took me a couple of decades, but I finally get what it is my mother was seeking in those moments. And I'm glad I've found it for myself. 

Really, this is all just to say that I love being married. And I really love my wife. 

They Are Trying to Destroy Us All

I finally watched parts of the "Sandy Hook was a hoax" video. I'd only read about it until today. I am flabbergasted by the stupidity of what seems to be A LOT of people. I will not link to it. I hate that I gave anyone a page view for that utter trash.

But it did reinforce one thing for me: It's not liberals or the liberal media or gays or abortion doctors or universal healthcare destroying this country. It's backward-thinking, largely white, paranoid, unintelligent individuals who compare Obama to Hitler and believe that a tragedy like Sandy Hook was planned out (by this government that, on any other day, they deem "ineffective" and/or "useless") with such precision that all of us just fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

Here's what else they believe:

They think "family values" means denying access to education, contraception, and then, finally, abortion so they can make sure would-be parents become actual parents. Then they tell the kids born into that situation that it's too damn bad because their parents didn't "earn" healthcare or the ability to provide them with a decent education. And they tell those reluctant parents that they're not going to receive any help raising those kids.

They believe that anyone who is not heterosexual is not fit to raise a child. They believe that though we were all supposedly created in their god's image, we gays are sinners who are heading straight to hell. They believe we have a desire to "indoctrinate" their children. They believe us to be pedophiles and perverts.

Though they are generally not wealthy themselves, they defend the rights of hugely wealthy Americans to essentially pay nothing into the system that got them that wealthy. Then they buy t-shirts and wear bumper stickers and hold up signs and weep at conventions for the candidates who want to make sure that the majority of their supporters never achieve any sort of economic mobility. They live in trailers and pay 17% tax on their below-poverty-line income, then vote for the guy who MAYBE paid a 13% effective rate on his millions.

They believe that thousands of scientists have simply made up how humanity has affected the environment on this planet. And though there is ample evidence telling us that the planet is warming up and that our cars and our dependency on factory farming are the largest causes, they still drive their giant SUVs caravan-style three blocks to Winn-Dixie to pick up the cheapest cut of meat they can find.

These people value their own ignorance. They wear it like a badge of honor. Continuing to give any of their mouthpieces -- Ann Coulter, Sean Hannity, Bill O'Reilly, Rush Limbaugh, or most every GOP politician, for that matter -- even 15 seconds helps to continually reassure the ignorant sheep that their delusional belief system is not only acceptable, but that it is accurate and the only way we can hope to save our nation from the delinquent heathens trying to run it into the ground.

We have to fight back.

I will not be ashamed of believing education and contraception are our two best weapons against unwanted pregnancies. Nor will I be ashamed of my belief that abortion is not murder, and is sometimes the only solution to a problem. It is an unfortunate solution, to be sure. But, hey, here's an idea: maybe people who know about sex and its consequences and are armed with the ability to halt those consequences will stop getting pregnant and won't need to resort to abortion as an option? Just a thought.

I will believe that there is nothing wrong with me because I happen to love someone of the same gender. That I am an American and should have the same rights as every other American. And maybe, just maybe, that I deserve at least the barest hint of respect and tolerance.

I will not shy away from the concept that those who build huge companies and/or amass great wealth did NOT do it alone, and that they owe something to the people and to the country that got them there. I will continue to believe that a man who made $42 million should pay a greater percentage of that back to his country than, say, the single parent who made $26,000.

I will emphatically state that I believe in science. That I know there are super-smart, dedicated individuals out there who have told me that your SUV is going to kill our planet. And I will continue to do to whatever I can to recycle, fight factory farming, conserve water, and generally reduce my overall carbon footprint.

And finally, when I see parents reacting in various ways to the brutal deaths of their children, I will not judge those reactions as "obvious" evidence that those children aren't actually dead. I won't hear the many bits of information coming out of a chaotic event in the first few hours and assume that their contradictions mean a giant government conspiracy. I will look at the facts. I will believe in Occam's razor. I will mourn for the lost lives and look for actual solutions. Not stockpiling.

I will not need a god to tell me how to do what's right. I will simply do it. I will remain a progressive. I have a heart. I intend to use it.

That Month We Thought My Wife Might Have Breast Cancer

It started with a pretty severe pain in her right breast. It had been a mild pain before December 19, but it decided to kick up a notch that day. So she didn't work out with me, because the jumping around in a Jillian Michaels workout was going to be too much to handle.

And the pain continued. Which meant no working out with me for a week. At this point there was not really a discernible "lump" exactly. Just the pain and a growing sense of dread.

A few days after the pain began, her parents came over to celebrate Christmas. Her father offered this reassuring thought: "Well, if it's cancer, it's cancer." Meaning she wasn't going to be able to do anything to make it worse, so she might as well carry on with life and work on figuring out what exactly was going on.

At some point in the new year, we discovered what felt an awful lot like those scary lumps they tell you about. But what's also noticeable about breasts in general, and my wife's in particular, is that everything in them can feel like a lump if you're looking for it. Breast tissue, when you dig down around in it, is not always soft and supple. And the lumps aren't always so discernible from the rest of the shit surrounding them. So there was a lot of, "You feel that?"

"Yeah, but I feel like I can sort of feel the same thing in the other one."

"Wait, where did it go? Nevermind. I lost it again."

For many people in this country, this wouldn't be such a big deal because you'd look at each other and say, "Hey, let's go to the doctor." But we don't have health insurance. And we only have dental insurance right now because it will somewhat reduce the $3,000 the dentist quoted me for the 12 cavities I need filled in the coming months.

We discussed the possibility of purchasing health insurance for her, then waiting until February 1 until it could kick in. But we can barely afford the lowest plan, at $134 per month, which has a $10,000 deductible. It's a "catastrophic" plan, built for, I guess, exactly this sort of problem. But was it worth getting if there were days when we couldn't even tell the lump was there? Or would it be better to just shell out the dough to get it checked out, because surely it wouldn't be anything?

Ultimately, we decided to opt for the latter. And being the good little liberals that we are, we called up Planned Parenthood yesterday. It was nine a.m. They had a 10:10 appointment. We took it.

Merritt and I dropped Katie off at the appointment, then headed for playgroup at the gym. We had literally been separated from her for 30 seconds when Merritt said, "I miss Momma." And of course my morbid mind just kept hoping that I wouldn't have to be hearing him say that at some point when we wouldn't be seeing her again in just a few hours. A point when we wouldn't see her again, period.

The appointment took several hours. A couple of women groped my wife's breasts. Let the world be put on notice here: this is the only situation in which this sort of behavior is acceptable. The "student clinician" and the nurse practitioner both seemed to think Katie just had some "irregular fibrous tissue," but referred her for a mammogram and possible ultrasound.

That appointment was today. Once again, I stayed with Merritt while Katie went to deal with this alone. When he got up from his nap and I told him Momma was at the doctor, Merritt said, "I don't want her to go to the doctor anymore." And I hoped we weren't foreshadowing months of him saying just that as she headed off to chemo and/or radiation, lost her hair, blah, blah, blah. The imagination is a terrible thing sometimes.

I'll cut to the chase. After a mammogram of both breasts and then an ultrasound of the right one, several medical professionals agreed that my wife does not have cancer. She just has some weird breast pain that no one can really explain, but it doesn't seem like it's going to kill her. She came home, and we hugged. She complained that some more ladies messed with her breasts today, but reassured me that once that the pain got a little better, I could mess with them, too. You know, in the fun kind of way.

The other night, when our fears over this situation were at their worst, I was pretty upset. And I thought about what it would be like if this actually turned out to be something terrible. Katie was rubbing my head, as she is wont to do, and I thought about how I should be trying my very best to memorize what that felt like. And then I thought about how I shouldn't have to do that, because we're 32 and that's not how this is supposed to work. I wondered if I should take a picture of every inch of her body, so that I wouldn't end up like Sally Field in "Places in the Heart," when her husband is dead and laid out on the dining room table and she looks at some part of him and notes that she's never seen that scar before. I want to remember every bit of it, but I'd much rather just be able to see it every day, live and in front of me.

There is something larger here, which is that the financial consideration should never have been an issue at all. It should not a "luxury" for a person in this country to be able to determine if he/she has cancer or HIV or hemorrhoids. Going to the doctor should not be a privilege extended only to a chosen few who have "earned" it. We are lucky enough to have room on our credit card to finance this sort of thing, even though we will likely be paying off the roughly $1,000 this adventure has cost us for months. Many months, probably. But there are many more out there who don't even have credit cards, or any other method of paying for any sort of ailment. I don't understand how certain people in this country can look at those other people, including me and my wife, and say, "Sorry. You got yourself into this mess." As if cancer or HIV or hemorrhoids or the fucking flu are simply byproducts of our laziness and/or unwillingness to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. It's wrong. If you think otherwise, YOU are wrong. Obamacare is not going to fix everything. It's a start, but the real change needs to happen in people's mindsets. And I have no idea where to begin with that.

Here's what I know: I'm really glad I'm not contemplating changing the name of this blog to "Funerals for Katie."

Happy Holidays to My Wife

All she ever really wants from me is a letter. A note. Something that shows that I've thought of her and taken the time to write it down. My other blog, that one I rarely update, sometimes meets that need. But I'm so bad at it that I can understand why she's still wishing for a little more.

We fell in love because of writing. Emails, filled with thousands of words, back and forth across the Atlantic Ocean. It didn't start as love; neither one of us was looking for it. It just happened.

But then life happened, too. And things got in the way. I'm busy with work and there are so many days when I honestly don't even think about the possibility of writing her. She writes me, and that makes my attempts all the more daunting. She knows what to say. She knows how to tell me how she feels. But when I try to do the same, everything I write comes out sounding like, "Me love girl." That simply will not do.

For our Christmas, which we celebrated three days early, I got her a toaster. The intention was not to be romantic. It was to meet a need. We've lived with a $7 toaster for two and a half years. It is inconsistent, to say the least. Everyone in this house loves toast, so a toaster makes sense as a gift.

But what she wants is a letter. So she's getting one. Only instead of writing to her, I'm writing to all of you about her.

I have never been prouder of anything in my life than I am of being able to say that Katie is my wife. It makes me seriously giddy every time I think about it, which is at least several times a day. Without meaning to sound too possessive, the fact that she is mine is almost beyond belief. I've done nothing to deserve such an amazing person to wake up to every morning, but she is here nonetheless.

She is hilarious. She is ridiculously smart. She is fantastically creative. She makes up songs everywhere she goes. She knows what I'm thinking even before I know. She is gorgeous. Like, seriously hot. In some ways you know, but also in ways that you will never get to see but that I know by heart, even as they surprise me daily.

I have never known love like this before. I had no idea it could be so powerful.

I will forever be impressed by her ability to be so strong, in the face of so much that would make an average person weak. There are many who would like to believe that she is just a heartless person who casually left her old life and destroyed other people. As if this is just something she took lightly and without any consideration for how it would affect anyone. This could not be further from the truth. Spending 30 years not being sure why you didn't feel quite right would destroy a weaker person. But Katie is better than that; she realized who she was, and she made the right choice for her family. For everyone involved. I defy anyone else to say that they're certain how they would handle the same situation. Let's see if you could deal with it with such grace, dignity, and courage.

And then there's the way she's a mother to that little boy. A few nights ago, Merritt woke up crying in the midst of a nightmare. Katie has been having trouble sleeping lately, so I got up to try to take care of him before she was startled out of her slumber. I picked him up and held him, and though he didn't fight me, he kept crying and was not able to fully wake up. Katie came in and sat on his bed, and after another minute or so, I gave Merritt to her. The second she wrapped him up in her arms, he calmed down. It was literally hysterical crying one second and peaceful sleep the next. He knew his momma, even with his eyes closed and from the middle of a pretty rough nightmare. He would have calmed down with me eventually, but his momma made it all better just like that.

There are so many ways to illustrate that this woman is the best mother to ever walk this earth. But all that really needs to be said is that she does everything for this little boy. She was a career-minded woman who gave it up to be a stay-at-home mom. She doesn't do anything without thinking about how it will affect him. She has genuine fun with him. She focuses on his well-being at all times. I have never seen a greater illustration of love than I get to witness every time I see them together. She was meant to be this little boy's mother. He could not be luckier.

This time of year, there is plenty of talk about the "reason for the season." As far as I can tell, the whole point of this time of year is to take a moment to reflect on the things for which you are grateful. To that end, Katie is absolutely the reason for this season and any other. Everything I do is with her -- and that little boy and this marriage -- in mind. At Christmas, on Valentine's Day, Arbor Day, and every day in between, I am thankful that we met all those years ago and that we were able to find each other again.

At night, she usually falls asleep first. When I turn out my light and get under the covers, I know that, without fail, I will feel her hand reaching out for me, even if she's been asleep for hours. It's like she just needs to know I am there. But she shouldn't worry. I will always be there.

I love her. I feel like I always have. And I know that I always will.

An Atheist and a Gentleman

The right wing idiots, the ones who label themselves Christians, have really gone and done it this time. Mike Huckabee, some guy from the "American Family Association," and I'm sure many others, have made sure to tell all of America exactly why mass shootings, like the one in Newtown on Friday, occur.

You might think they've blamed a lack of access to proper mental health care, or the all-too-convenient access to assault weapons. But if you think that, then you haven't been paying attention. The obvious reason is staring us right in the face. Or, rather, looking down at us from above. Or carrying us on the beach so that there is only one set of footprints. That's right: it's god.

Because, you see, we have spent 50 years (their number, not mine) telling god we don't want him. For 50 years, the "liberal elite" have told god that he just doesn't belong in schools or in the public forum. Nevermind the Constitution! Forget the separation of church and state! If only we had been allowed to pray every morning before classes began, or before kickoff of every football game, tragedies like Newtown and Aurora would not be occurring.

According to that guy from the "American Family Association" (it should be obvious why I'm putting this horrible organization in quotes), god is a "gentleman" who doesn't go where he's not wanted. So on Friday morning, he looked down from his perch and saw Adam Lanza shooting his way through an elementary school. The gentleman checked his list, noted that Sandy Hook Elementary School had not performed the ritualistic prayer and/or sacrifice to him that morning, and relaxed, knowing that he didn't have to do anything for these god damned sinners.

Sure, some of those children and teachers probably cried out for god in those inconceivable final moments of their lives. But that was not god's problem. He could not be blamed for it, even though he "created" the man perpetrating the madness and apparently had all the power in the world to nip that in the bud. So he kept his finger off the trigger while Adam Lanza fired away.

You could chalk it up to just a few at the top of the right wing power structure saying this sort of thing, but their sheep are believing it, too. My own cousin posted nonsense like this on Facebook the day after the tragedy:

Please, if you're someone who posted this or finds yourself nodding in agreement, think about what you're saying. God is telling this student, "I know that I made all of you in my image and I am in control of everything that happens down there, but I also gave you free will. So since you decided to follow the laws of your land and attempt to respect all people's religions (or non-religious beliefs), I decided that massacres like this are just going to happen. Sorry. It just really pisses me off when people don't believe in me. Because I am super selfish and only interested in getting as many mindless followers as possible. Oops. I mean: because I want all to know the joy that is my presence in their lives and find eternal life in heaven."

If you believe that god did this because we don't allow him in schools, but at the same time find yourself in disagreement with the methods of groups like the Westboro Baptist Church, take a moment to bask in your hypocrisy. The WBC believes that events like Friday are a direct result of moral decrepitude in our nation, and that god is punishing us for our sins. Which is exactly what you're saying when you tell us that god let those children die because our nation has "turned away from him."

If you truly believe that your god didn't show up on Friday because he was angry that no one believes in him, you need to know two things: 1) a vast majority of individuals in this nation believe in the Christian god; 2) belief in the Christian god and belief in the separation of church and state are not mutually exclusive ideas.

Oh, and 3) your god is a serious douchebag. There is no other explanation for it.

To be fair, the crazies spouting this crap don't believe god was totally missing in the events of Friday morning. Not at all. Mike Huckabee believes god showed up after the tragedy, in the form of hugs and police officers and candy and rainbows and sunshine. You know, where he's the most useful.

I believe that if your god were so great, none of this would ever happen. People would not feel compelled to murder one another in cold blood. We would all get along and walk hand-in-hand on this planet, waiting for the promise of that eternal peace.

But because that doesn't happen, you have to make up stories about why your god isn't as all-loving and all-powerful as you preach him to be. "He just wants us all to believe, okay? He's not such a bad guy. You should see him when he's being sweet. He just gets like this sometimes."

So please don't be confused when those non-believers around you aren't jumping on the bandwagon. And at this point I'm no longer speaking to just the Mike Huckabees of the world. Anyone who can look those Newtown parents in the eye and seriously say. "I'm praying for you" has lost his/her damn mind. Many of those families were religious. They likely prayed often. But, what, it just wasn't enough for your god? So he watched as their children died in a bloodbath?

This, right here, is the one and only reason that atheists are labeled "angry."But it's never further acknowledged that we have every right to be. So many ridiculous notions in this country are backed up and protected because they also happen to be labeled "religious." This is my take: any group that truly believes that their god let innocent babies die horrible deaths on Friday in Newtown (and all over the world that day and every other day forever and ever amen) for any reason at all (free will, the need for more angels, whatever) is completely fucked. But if you believe he did it because he actually places conditions on that unconditional love he promised humanity, then you're extra fucked. Either way, I'm not going to find myself falling to my knees and asking god to help me get through my emotions around this situation. Because as you've already told me, there's a pretty good chance he's not going to listen.

Funerals for Babies

(I've written about this before. I guess I will have to continue until something changes.)

Sometimes when I'm doing mundane things, I think about all the people all over the world who are dying in that exact moment. I can't help it. There are billions of people on the planet, so statistically there are lots and lots of them dying every second. I think about the "natural" deaths (though I struggle to think of death as natural at all), but mostly about the horrific ones. But while I was sleeping and then sweating my boobs off to Jillian Michaels on Friday morning, not thinking about anything but myself, Adam Lanza was in the midst of brutally murdering 20 children and six adults at an elementary school, after murdering his mother at her home.

I hate guns. I don't understand gun enthusiasts. I don't understand describing the love of guns as a "culture." There are several definitions of that word, of course, but so many of them are incongruous with the idea of "enthusiastically" collecting and/or using a weapon that has only one intended purpose: to destroy.

Culture: that which is excellent in the arts, manners, etc.

Culture: a particular form or stage of civilization, as that of a certain nation or period.

Guns aren't examples of excellence in the arts. They certainly don't have anything to do with manners. And I see nothing about guns and their use, in any capacity, as evidence that we are in any way civilized. We are supposed to be evolving, yet it seems the only thing that evolves is our ability to create faster, more efficient killing machines that sell for cheaper and cheaper at Wal-Mart every year. We should be so proud.

I don't understand people who bring up a recent Chinese tragedy where a madman injured 22 children, using a knife. One key word there is "injured." Yes, you can do a lot of damage with a knife. But the man in Connecticut Friday KILLED 27 people. In probably a much shorter time than it took the guy with the knife in China. So, please, don't bring your knife to my gunfight.

If you want to have a gun because you believe so strongly in the Second Amendment, fine. Then go join the military. Or establish a well-regulated militia. The Founding Fathers may have wanted to create a "living" document, but I don't think they could have foreseen their descendants' remarkable ability to create such effective and horrible ways to mow down their neighbors. These men were dealing with muskets that could shoot, probably at most, 20 bullets an hour. If Adam Lanza had that sort of capability at Sandy Hook on Friday, he would have killed one person. Maybe. If he had a knife, he might have killed a few. But the thing about a knife is, if you're wielding one and I run away, you have to chase me in order to do any harm. Meanwhile, the other 20 people with me run the other direction.

For truly effective killing, one needs a gun. Or four.

No one is saying that there aren't other weapons in the world. But to pretend like they aren't the most accessible weapon that also happens to provide the most damage would be laughable if it weren't so sad. Guns have one point: to cause death. I will never accept the idea that this makes them a useful "tool" to have around. 

Opponents of gun control say we simply need stricter laws for those who would use a gun in the commission of a crime. I say the mentally unstable go into these situations with zero regard for punishment. Or with the intention of killing themselves. Anyone willing to gun down 20 first graders does not give two shits about your mandatory minimums.

Some say we need to improve everyone's access to mental healthcare. That is obvious. But the thing is, though the the signs of mental illness were allegedly there in Adam Lanza, and other killers like him, he could have still legally purchased a gun. But let's say we changed it so that anyone with any sign of mental illness can't buy a gun. You're twitchy in the gun store? No gun. Carrying around a copy of Catcher in the Rye? No gun. That still wouldn't have stopped Adam Lanza. His mother purchased those guns legally. And she died when her son used one of them to shoot her in the face.

It's hard to blame people for liking guns when they have grown up in a nation where the weapons are so prevalent. We've been told they're okay. Necessary for protection. Fun, even. Video games and movies desensitize us to the violent results of gun use. But even if you haven't turned to the sort of violence exhibited in Connecticut on Friday, and in many places all over this country, I think it's important to practice a little introspection. Why are guns so very important to you? What benefit do they truly bring to your life? Can you really say that those alleged benefits outweigh the destruction caused by guns virtually every day? Your ability to gun down a deer is more important than the more than 10,000 gun deaths (not including suicides) in this country every year? You may regard me as some sort of liberal nut. I can't help that. I'm simply asking you to think about something bigger than yourself.

If there were no guns, then bad people (or mentally ill people, or both) couldn't get guns. Our boys (because, let's face it, these mass shootings are perpetrated by young, white males) wouldn't grow up believing there is a reason to glorify violence because of how "fun" it is. I have fired a gun once in my life. It was in a propmaster's armory in Rome, Italy, inside a small room with padded walls. I believe I fired a semi-automatic, because one pull of the trigger fired three rounds. Or is that an automatic? I don't know and I don't care. I fired blanks. But the power was still there. I felt it. There was a rush. But it was immediately followed by the thought of the damage I could have done if I had turned this weapon, even with it loaded only with blanks, on the man who had handed it to me. I did not enjoy that feeling of power. But I think far too many people in this nation feel exactly the opposite way. Finding a "thrill" in that sort of power, and wanting it again and again, is disturbing to me. So when we talk about mental illness, maybe we need to start right there.

I believe restricting access (whatever watered-down form that would take) is not nearly enough. People will always find a way to get their hands on what they want. I want all the guns thrown in the ocean. Think of the lovely reef they would create. You could be rolling your eyes, but the only solution here is peace. And we will never find it by looking through the scope of a rifle.

On Friday night, I sat on the couch while Merritt sat on the floor, leaning against my leg. All I could do was think about those parents in Connecticut, whose babies were still lying as they fell, in pools of blood on the floor of their first grade classroom. Those parents will never feel the weight of their children again.

I hate guns.