Facing Our Own Limitations

The day my son was born, I became a superhero. Provider of all needs. Solver of all problems. My superpower is a fierce intuition, instilled in me by the universe to care and protect my baby. To him, there is nothing I cannot do and no answer I do not have. He is still too young to fully understand these concepts, but his innate sense is that I am all he needs to remain happy, healthy, and safe. And in truth, I have convinced myself of these things, too.

As a mother, I have to believe to some extent that I can protect my son from the dangers of the world. I do all the things that mothers are supposed to do - careful carseat installation, cutting food into bite-size pieces, covering outlets and sharp table corners - to ensure that he is safe on a daily basis. I send him to an amazing accredited daycare with staff that I know and trust. I hug him and kiss him and read to him and make sure he knows how special he is and how very, very loved.

I do all that I can. And most days, it feels like it's enough. Most days it feels like I really can take care of this wonderful human being and shield him from the evils of the world. Most days are good days. But then there are other days. Days when I have to face the reality of my limitations. Days when something so devastating happens, something so mind-numbingly awful, that I have to admit that there are atrocities out there that could happen to us, that I am powerless to prevent. It is a terrifying reality to have to face.

Over the last few days, I have caught myself looking at my son with envy. At 16-months-old, he woke up on Saturday morning and his world was exactly as it had been the day before. He knows not of monsters with guns, of slaughtered children, of lives shattered with senseless violence. I look at him and I find I am amazed that innocence still exists. It feels as though the moment those lives were lost, all innocence should have evaporated into thin air. And then I am grateful that it hasn't. That as a parent of a child who is young enough to be oblivious, I can still protect him to some degree, at least for now.

But what of the children who are not too young to know? What about the children across the country who have heard about the shooting who now at seven or eight or nine have to wonder why the grown-ups, who they have always trusted implicitly, couldn't stop this from happening? How do we explain to them that the people they've always known as capable of anything couldn't protect Sandy Hook Elementary School?

In the wake of a tragedy, experts say the most important thing is to reassure children that they are safe. One of the biggest obstacles we all face in moving forward after something as awful as this, is finding a way to make those words feel true.  We, as parents and teachers and caretakers have to be strong enough to make our children and students believe us when we tell them this. It is a particularly challenging task when we ourselves feel so shaken and scared. But this is what caring for children is all about. We hold them tight and we kiss their foreheads and we continue doing the best we can. We find a way to put our own fears aside so we can provide them with the security they need to get through another day. It's not about being all-powerful superheroes, it's about being there for them when they need us. Even when we're struggling ourselves.