This morning, I watched as my five-year-old, Oliver, boarded the bus for his third day of kindergarten. As the bus pulled away with his beaming face looking back at me, I felt a lump in my throat. A part of my heart was riding that bus, leaving me behind.
Oliver celebrated his fifth birthday on December 14, 2012—the same day that twenty innocent children boarded a bus for school and never returned home. As we send our little ones off to school this fall, I can’t help but carry the weight of Newtown in my thoughts.
I think of those eager faces and the families who left pieces of their hearts on buses that never came back. Many families now live with unfillable voids. While my focus is on my own child, I can’t ignore the absence created in a world that feels a bit dimmer without their children.
On his second day of kindergarten, Oliver excitedly shared that gym class was the highlight of his day, something he described with pure joy. However, he also mentioned practicing a lockdown drill. They learned to lock the doors, turn off the lights, pull down the shades, and hide beneath their desks. He reassured me that if a bad stranger were to approach, his teacher would keep him safe. At that moment, I felt my heart break just a little.
In 2013, this is what kindergarten entails: gym class and lockdown drills.
I take pride in Oliver’s school for how they handled such a complex and distressing subject with young children. Yet, it’s difficult to accept that this is now a fundamental part of our children’s education. I reflect on the tragedy of Newtown and the mixture of hope and sorrow that marks this new chapter for our families.
When Oliver asked if a bad stranger could come for him, I looked him in the eye and, with a conviction I didn’t truly feel, I lied to him: “Your school is safe. All the doors are locked.” But his innocent question, “But what if the bad stranger breaks down the doors?” pierced my heart. Once more, I offered a false reassurance: “This will never happen.” We all know the reality of what could happen, yet sometimes, the comfort of a lie seems necessary.
I vividly remember my own kindergarten experience: a vibrant classroom filled with playhouses and simple lessons. The safety and innocence of that environment seem like a distant memory. Preparing our children for today’s world involves navigating complex emotional landscapes, and it requires a different approach in the 21st century. We can’t return to the past.
Today’s children seem to grasp concepts at such a young age, including those that many of us wish they didn’t have to know. Even as an adult, I want to believe that there are no dangers lurking in the shadows. I wish I could simply shut the lights, lock the doors, and hide under the furniture with my children, pretending that I have the power to ensure their safety. But I know that the harsh realities of the world will always seep in, reminding me that there are no guarantees.
This fall, I must let Oliver go to school, recognizing that while my love for him runs deep, my control over his safety is limited. As I spot his bus approaching the corner, I can see his smiling face. For today, that piece of my heart is whole and safe, at least for a little while longer.
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