This morning, I waved goodbye to my five-year-old son, Lucas, as he boarded the bus for his third day of kindergarten. Watching the bus pull away with his joyful grin, I felt a lump in my throat. A piece of my heart was on that bus, driving off into the unknown.
Lucas turned five on December 14, 2012, the same day a tragic event unfolded in Newtown, where twenty children boarded a bus to what should have been a joyful day at school, but never returned. As we send our little ones off to school this fall, Newtown lingers in my thoughts.
I can’t help but think of those innocent faces and the families who left pieces of their hearts on buses that never came back. So many families are left with empty spaces in their lives. While I focus on my son, I can’t shake the feeling that the world is a little dimmer without those lost children.
On his second day of kindergarten, Lucas excitedly told me about gym class, describing it as “awesome.” But then he mentioned something quite sobering: they practiced a lockdown drill. They locked the doors, turned off the lights, pulled down the shades, and practiced hiding under their desks. He said, “If a bad stranger comes to my school, my teacher will protect me.” And in that moment, a piece of my heart broke.
In 2013, this is what kindergarten entails: gym class and lockdown drills. I’m proud of Lucas’s school for handling such a heavy topic with care for the little ones. Yet, it’s hard to accept that this is now part of our children’s first lessons at school. My thoughts drift to Lucas, Newtown, and the mix of hope, promise, and tragedy that surrounds these moments, filling me with sorrow.
Then, he asked if the bad stranger would come after him. I looked into his eyes and, with a confidence I didn’t feel, lied and assured him, “Your school is safe. All the doors are locked.” He followed up with a question that pierced my heart: “But what if the bad stranger breaks down the doors?” Again, I lied, saying, “That will never happen.” Deep down, we all know the reality. Sometimes, though, a little white lie feels like the best option for now.
I can still picture my kindergarten classroom, with its big playhouse and simple activities. But that world is gone. Preparing our children for today’s realities, emotionally and educationally, requires a different approach in the 21st century. And I suppose that’s how it has to be. We can’t turn back the clock.
Children today seem to grasp so much at a young age, including things I wish they didn’t have to know. Even at 35, I wish I could believe there are no bad strangers in the world. I want to pull the curtains, lock the doors, and hide with my kids, pretending that I can keep them safe. But I know that light from reality seeps in, reminding me that life comes with no guarantees.
So, this fall, I have to let Lucas go, acknowledging that my love for him is deep, yet my control over what happens next is nearly nonexistent. I watch as his bus rounds the corner, spotting his beaming face. For today, at least, that piece of my heart feels whole and safe for just a little longer.
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Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, a mother shares her emotional journey as she sends her son off to kindergarten amidst the lingering shadows of past tragedies. While navigating the complexities of modern childhood, she grapples with fears and the reality of safety in schools today. The article ultimately highlights the bittersweet nature of parenting, where love and concern intertwine as children step into an uncertain world.