Why Do Guns Seem More Valuable Than Our Kids’ Lives?

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I’m in my cozy kitchen, surrounded by my four little ones, and I feel a wave of relief wash over me when my oldest three return home from school. Just then, I hear the news about a shooting at a center for individuals with disabilities in San Bernardino. Meanwhile, my youngest is on the floor, cheerfully gnawing on her Little People Nativity Set, the donkey glistening with her drool.

I keep up the cheerful facade, handing out after-school snacks, but inside, I’m consumed with worry. Will my kids reach adulthood? Will I watch them grow into their own? Perhaps they’ll make it to college only to face the grim reality of another troubled soul who feels the urge to bring others down with him. I’ve lived a decent life, and I know children can cope with the loss of a parent; I did. I’ve even outlived my own mother by two years. But if tragedy were to strike at a mall, a store, a church, or a concert, they’d eventually be okay. I realize this—it’s the only thing keeping me grounded most days.

I grew up in a different era. I rode in the front seat, bouncing on the armrest while my uncle, who had a few drinks, navigated the roads. I roller-skated without a helmet and inhaled all the secondhand smoke around me. I would disappear for hours, with no way to inform my parents if I fell or if someone tried to abduct me.

Now my children are strapped into car seats that could withstand an apocalypse. They’ve never inhaled a whiff of smoke and look like the Goodyear Tire mascot when they ride their bikes, while I hover just a few steps away. I’ve only just started to allow my eldest a few moments of freedom out of my sight.

Yet, none of that really matters. What I can’t control is the reality of living in a place where gunfire is a daily occurrence. No amount of security cameras or checkpoints can change the fact that those with guns are getting through. The men with the bombs are setting them off, and the ones on planes are crashing into buildings.

I don’t have solutions. The politicians on my screen keep repeating that guns aren’t the issue, but none seem to offer clarity on what the actual problem is if not guns. Some point fingers at religion, others at drugs, while some suggest I should fear the government.

But I don’t fear the government. I’m just a simple person, and my fear lies with guns—the people wielding them, the explosives, the planes. I’m anxious about those who insist that the answer is more guns, not fewer. Can someone help me understand this?

My baby is now crawling to me, eager to share the angel figurine she’s removed from her Nativity set. She beams up at me, and I can’t help but smile back, envious of her blissful ignorance. She has no idea about the dangers of guns or bombs, and I’m left wondering how to keep her shielded from such horrors.

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In summary, the stark contrast between past and present parenting reveals a deep fear of violence in today’s world. Despite the advancements in child safety, the overwhelming presence of guns has created an environment where we question the safety of our children. As we navigate these concerns, it’s crucial to seek out supportive resources and engage in meaningful conversations about safety and well-being.