Like the little girl whose body the police found today in a ditch.

Ugh. I don't even want to say her name, but I know I have to. Saying her name makes it real, gives definition to the abstraction of child abduction.

Samantha.

How profoundly depraved does a human being have to be to abduct, sexually assault and murder an innocent little five year old child? Really, I want to know. Where, exactly, is the line between a little off balance and seriously fucked in the head, because lately a lot of folks seem to be toeing that line.

I'm thinking about Samantha's parents, and how hard they must be grieving. I cannot fathom how on earth they are able to keep it together, but I know they are, because they have to. They have a three year old. I know they must be thinking that their little girl's memory is frozen in time: she will never grow up, never get married, never age, never be anything but a sweet faced cherub with auburn ringlets. And how deep the pain of that knowledge must be.

I can't help but think about what the last moments of this little girl's life must have been like: how utterly terrified she must have been, wondering why her mommy and daddy didn't rescue her from the monster. I know if I can't get those thoughts out of my head, her parents must be teetering on the brink of insanity with them. How, as a mother, do you ever stop thinking of your child's last moments on this earth as being full of anguish? When do the images receed and give you peace? When do those scars heal, if ever? And if they do, does it even matter now when the reality of it is thisclose and omnipresent?

Because even though we assure our children that monsters aren't real, they are just pretend, now please would they just go to sleep ... we as adults know better. hey aren't under the bed or in the closet; they are in our neighborhoods, schools, and places of worship. They don't have big teeth and fur, no, that would be too easy. They blend in seemlessly, until it's too late.

We tell our kids "Don't talk to strangers" but we constantly undermine that rule. For one thing, we never define who is a stranger, and then, in the name of "good manners" we ignore our own rules. In the store, at Aunt Betty's house, at school, we encourage ~ even demand ~ that Little Billy "be polite" and say hello to So and So, or give Auntie Ruth a big kiss even though poor Billy hasn't the foggiest clue who the hell Auntie Ruth is. We subvert at almost every oppportunity our children's natural instincts as to what is safe and what isn't.

I don't even really know where I'm going with this tonight. I just know that the idea of my child's naked body being found in a ditch is enough to put things in perspective for me as a frazzled mom. Hug your kids. Ignore the paint on the comforter, the popcorn ground into the rug. Love them and hold them and make sure they know you care. Teach them how to stay safe. And stay vigilant. Please.