One hour and thirty minutes. 5,400 seconds. One good morning kiss, one bowl of sugary cereal, one bubble bath. One drive to school. Four stoplights, two speed bumps, 1 stop sign. One last morning drive to school. One last chance to tell your 5-year old child how much you love them. Once last chance to say goodbye.

Would you do things a little differently? Would your morning routine change? Maybe you would gaze upon your sleeping son, curled into his Spiderman comforter. So secure with his stuffed animal snug in his arms. You may watch as his chest rises and falls with each breath that he draws. The way he exhales when your hand brushes the hair from his sealed eyelids. Maybe you would take in that moment for just another few minutes before the morning bustle begins again. But only if you knew.

You would do everything differently. Hold onto every word spoken. Remember every mannerism. Giggle at the bath time memories being made. Allow her to pick out her own non-matching socks. Let him eat two bowls of Fruit Loops. Take the side streets instead of the freeway. Take the time to get out of the car. Walk them into their classroom. Give them one last hug and kiss. Wave three times through the window. Feel the bullet piercing through your own flesh.

But you wouldn't do anything differently. Because you wouldn't know.

One hour and thirty minutes. 5,400 seconds. Twenty little boys and girls. Robbed of their futures. By little boy trapped within a matured body. Still longing for a mothered memory to hold onto. One final bullet.

If only Nancy Lanza could do things differently.