Sometimes being a parent can feel so overwhelmingly scary and vulnerable it can shake you to the core. Make you question your
confidence and ability as a mom or dad. On a good day my husband and I often feel like we’re winging it, and we joke about how silly it is that we have been put in charge of these three beautiful children. Blank slates given to us to teach, mold, and nurture. How is this possible, when we’re still not fully molded ourselves? But we chug along and try to do right by our little blank slates.
And then out of the blue something occurs that makes this parenting thing go from just generally difficult to unbearably grueling. Our fledgling parenting skills are put to the test when we least expect it and aren’t prepared. Just days ago I was beating myself up over not packing a healthy enough lunch for my kids during a busy morning. Today I had to have a discussion with my children that introduced to their young minds the reality that there is evil in this world. How are we to go from here to there? It doesn’t make sense, and yet it’s what must be done.
Every parent to young children is struggling right now with the If, How and When to tell their children about the devastating events at Sandy Hook Elementary School. It’s a decision each parent has to make, and many, I suspect, like myself, just aren’t certain of the right thing to do.
There is no manual or guidebook we can crack open to be told how to handle this. Even when looking to the professionals, we are just gathering advice and opinions and must make our own decisions. Our own gut-wrenching, soul-searching decisions.
Author Katie Mardigian
My first inclination as a parent is to shield my children completely from the tragedy, believing that by not discussing it with them they might be able to stay blissfully unaware of the dangers of our world. I agree with many of the child psychologists who have been interviewed in the last 48 hours that the magnitude of the devastation is probably too great for young children to handle. It’s best to protect them from the harsh reality that even when we do the right things and make the right decisions, evil can penetrate our lives.
But I also know that many parents will choose to share the events with their children, as is their right, and the likelihood of my kids staying in the dark on the subject is slim to none. It will come up on the bus or in the classroom, and my plan to keep my kid safe from this information will fail. (Somehow, over the last 50 years, the option of raising a child blissfully unaware of the mistakes the adults around them are making has been taken off the table. In its place are violent video games, 24-hour news stations, and a jaded and fallible society.
But that’s not my concern in this moment.)
And so my husband and I decided to tell our children about what happened in Newtown, Connecticut last Friday morning. We discussed how much to tell and how to tell it. We felt better having each other as partners in this painful task, but the understanding that we were about to strip away part of their innocence, to impart the kind of scary, grown-up knowledge that cannot be unknown, was an overwhelming and awful feeling.
It was a strange and unexpected comfort to know that so many parents before us have had this type of difficult conversation with their unsuspecting children. I thought of the distressed parents dealing with their own grief as they were forced to tell their children about the senseless assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr. and President Kennedy. Or the tragic explosion of the Challenger space shuttle. Or the shootings at Columbine and Virginia Tech. Or that angry and misguided people intentionally drove planes into buildings. Or that a loved one is sick or might not be coming back. Legions of parents before us have mustered the courage to do this. And so we could too.
We took it slow, not wanting to share more than was necessary. It hurt to see the looks in their eyes when they realized the magnitude of what we were saying. We answered their questions and stood firm in our message that while this is scary and unexpected, they are safe and loved and watched over by the many capable, loving adults in their lives.
This is one parenting milestone I was never prepared for. It’s as if this dark part of parenthood is a sick, sad rite of passage. That until you can look your child in the eye, describe to them the horrors that sometimes exist in our society, and then ease their fears and worries with soft, reassuring words and strong hugs, you haven’t really had to be a Parent-with-a-capital-P.
I desperately want to go back to worrying about what to pack in my kids’ lunchboxes. But more than anything, my heart goes out to all of the children, parents, families, educators, responders and community members whose lives have been forever changed by this tragedy. And for them, I will accept my new role as Parent-with-a-capital-P with the deep gratitude that comes with knowing that, for today, my children are safe.
