As I sit in my cozy kitchen surrounded by my four little ones, I feel a wave of relief wash over me as my older three return from school. Yet, that comfort is soon shattered when I hear about a shooting at a facility for those with developmental disabilities in San Bernardino. My youngest is sprawled on the floor, gleefully sucking on her Little People Nativity Set, the donkey now glistening with her drool.
While I distribute after-school snacks with a cheerful face, my mind races with worries: Will my children reach adulthood? Will I watch them grow? Perhaps I can protect them just long enough to see them off to college, only to have them fall victim to yet another individual driven by despair, intent on taking others with him. I’ve had a fair life, and I understand that children can cope with losing a parent—after all, I did. I’ve outlived my own mother by two years. But if I were to be caught in a shooting at the mall, or a grocery store, or a concert, I know they’d eventually be alright. That realization is the only thread keeping me grounded enough to step outside each day.
I grew up in a different era. I rode in cars without seatbelts and roller-skated without helmets while inhaling secondhand smoke. I would roam the neighborhood for hours with no way to communicate if something went wrong, let alone if someone tried to take me away.
In contrast, my kids are strapped into car seats built like tanks. They’ve probably never seen a cigarette. They look like the Goodyear Tire mascot when they ride their bikes, as I stand close by, and I’ve only recently started allowing the oldest to venture out of my sight for brief moments.
But these precautions feel futile in a world where gunfire is a daily occurrence. No amount of security cameras, checkpoints, or locked doors can change the grim reality: the individuals wielding guns are getting through. The ones with bombs are activating them. The ones on planes are crashing them into buildings.
I don’t have any solutions. The politicians I see on TV keep insisting guns aren’t the issue, yet they fail to offer any alternatives if it’s not firearms. Some cite religion as the culprit, others mention drugs, while a few suggest I should fear the government instead.
But I’m not afraid of the government. I’m just an ordinary person, maybe not seeing the whole picture, but my fear lies with the guns. I’m frightened of the men with firearms, the bombs, the planes. I’m unsettled by those who argue that the solution lies in more guns, not fewer. I need someone to clarify this for me.
My baby is now crawling toward me, eager to hand over the angel from her Nativity set. She beams up at me with delight, and I can’t help but smile back, feeling envious of her blissful innocence. She’s unaware of the dangers lurking in the world—those with guns or bombs—and my mind races with thoughts on how to shield her from that reality.
If you’re interested in more resources about home insemination and pregnancy, visit March of Dimes. You can also explore this article for insights on privacy policies.
In summary, while I navigate the complexities of parenting in a world where violence looms, I remain committed to finding ways to protect my children from the harsh realities of life.