This morning, I waved goodbye as my five-year-old, Max, boarded the bus for his third day of kindergarten. Watching it drive away, with his joyful smile framed in the window, I felt a lump rise in my throat. A part of my heart was on that bus, and it was now heading off into the world.
Max turned five on December 14, 2012, the same day that twenty children boarded a similar bus, only to never return home. This fall, as we send our kids to school, the tragedy in Newtown weighs heavily on my mind.
I can’t help but think of those innocent faces and the families who left pieces of their hearts on that bus, never to be whole again. While I focus on Max, I’m also painfully aware of the void left in a world that feels a little dimmer without their children.
On his second day of kindergarten, Max excitedly shared that gym class was the highlight of his day. Yet, he also mentioned something sobering: they practiced a lockdown drill. The teacher explained how to lock the doors, turn off the lights, and hide under the desks. He assured me that if a bad stranger came to school, his teacher would protect him, and he would follow the procedure. In that moment, I felt a piece of my heart break.
In 2013, this is what kindergarten now entails: gym class and lockdown drills.
I am incredibly proud of Max’s school for how they handled this sensitive topic with such young children, but it’s hard to fathom that this has become a necessary part of school life. I find myself reflecting on the hope, promise, and sorrow all wrapped up in this new reality, and it makes me sad.
Then, Max asked me if the bad stranger might come for him. I looked him in the eye and, with a certainty I didn’t truly feel, lied, saying, “Your school is safe. All the doors are locked.” He pressed further, “But what if the bad stranger breaks down the doors?” Again, I lied, “That will never happen.” Deep down, we all know what’s possible, but sometimes, a little white lie feels like the best option to protect their innocence, at least for now.
I vividly remember my own kindergarten experience. The classroom was filled with joy and innocence, complete with a big playhouse in the center. I learned simple things, like the pledge of allegiance. That world feels so distant now. Preparing our children for today’s challenges means adapting to a reality that is vastly different from the past.
Today’s kids seem to be aware of so much at such young ages, including things I wish they didn’t have to know. Even as an adult, I want to believe in a world without any bad strangers. I often wish I could just dim the lights, pull down the shades, lock the doors, and hide with my children, pretending I have the power to keep them safe. But a sliver of reality always seeps in, reminding me that on this journey, none of us can have guarantees.
As fall begins, I must let Max go, recognizing that my love for him is immense, yet it can’t shield him from the uncertainties of the world. I look up to see his bus approaching, and my heart swells as I see his smiling face. For today, at least, my heart feels whole and safe.
This article originally published on September 5, 2013.
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Summary
In this reflective piece, a mother shares her experience as she sends her son off to kindergarten amidst the backdrop of recent tragic events. While she cherishes the milestones of her child’s education, she grapples with the harsh realities of modern life, including the necessity of lockdown drills in schools. The piece highlights the bittersweet emotions of parenting in a world that feels increasingly uncertain.