I've had the same nightmare for the past two nights: I am watching little ones sit on Santa's lap, all smiles, telling him what they'd like for Christmas. The scene is vibrant and warm and filled with sounds of the holiday--laughter, the hum of the patient crowd, bells.
And then I see them, the beautiful children murdered at school, watching Santa from the shadows. They are pale in the face and covered in blood and they are sobbing. Those babies want so badly to sit on Santa's lap.
Both nights I have sprung to my knees as if I were crawling out of the nightmare. Perhaps the guilt of spoiling my little one this year is getting to me, especially after seeing the photos of these sweet little first graders and hearing the stories of their short lives and knowing that they will not be rushing downstairs this year to see what Santa has left for them under the tree.
This cannot be real. No one is callous enough to murder twenty babies. Twenty babies.
