On Being News Interpreter to My Kids

I'm no news junkie, but this has been one of those weeks when it's almost impossible to pull oneself away from the news. Even now as I write this, I'm refreshing the New York Times web site every few minutes to find out if my Boston neighbors can let out their breath. I'm still holding mine.

And at the same time, it's been hard to listen to, watch, or read the news with my curious, observant kids present. "What happened?" I was asked this morning, as I was desperately trying to listen to Morning Edition to find out, myself, what happened in Boston overnight. Desperately, because of the apparent urgency--the way in which it was clear that the radio hosts didn't know themselves exactly what was happening--and also, because my kids kept interrupting me with their own questions. Bella asked me turn off the radio so I could explain to her the news that I had barely been able to hear or digest.

Kids think we know. Not only are we supposed to know what's happening, but we're supposed to filter the news to them in a sensitive way that makes them feel safe. The National Association of School Psychologists says to: 

• 1) Be careful what little eyes see and ears hear. Children are less able to handle the intensive, detailed coverage of an event.
• 2) Reassure children that they are safe. Remind them that trustworthy people are in charge and helping.
• 3) Maintain a normal routine. Model calm and control.
• 4) Stick to the facts. Don't stereotype people that might be associated with violence.
• 5) Keep the lines of communication open. Be aware of children's emotional state.

It used to be I tried very hard not to let my kids know when bad things were happening in the news. Here's when I admit that this week, I mostly gave up.

 Last night, after the surveillance videos of the bombing suspects were released, I spent a few minutes scrutinizing the videos online, bewildered by the very unprecedented nature of such a manhunt. "Who are they?" Bella asked, before I could even get to the bottom of the article. And so began a conversation about suspects and manhunts and surveillance videos and many, many questions to the effect of, "but HOW did they know it was those two guys? Out of all the people who were there?"

 I wanted to say: "You'll understand better when you're old enough to watch Homeland, honey." It's when real life is full of the stuff of grown-up TV, that parents get tested. 

This was the week, too, when I had to explain to my daughters that the US Senate had failed to pass the gun control measures that are needed to change the culture of guns and increase safety in our nation. We as a family have written letters, started and signed petitions, and attended rallies to show our support for these measures. And I was left having to explain to my kids about the NRA, and about some Americans' love affair with weapons, and about the way political campaigns work. I also told them that there are a lot of people who care deeply about gun safety, including our president, and that hopefully change will yet come.

At the time of this writing there are 12 people confirmed dead, with at least 40 still missing after the fertilizer plant explosion in West, Texas. Somehow, with all that's happened this week, I don't think my kids know about this terrible tragedy, yet. If and when they ask about it, I will tell them what I know, and how I feel: sick with sorrow.

Perhaps all we can ever do, as parents, is be ourselves. 

How Fragile We Are

This morning as I was scrambling through the morning get-the-kids-out-of-the-house routine, I heard a story on the radio about how the horrific Boston bombings, like other previous terror events, remind people about the fragility of life.

There I was, filling lunch bags, making tea, spreading spreads on toast, and rushing, rushing as usual, as I peppered my girls with the regular old questions: Did you brush your teeth? What about your hair? Go to the bathroom? Pack your backpack? Bring your book? Hurry, hurry, I said. We're running late.

And in the midst of that most mundane chaos, the radio reminded me that a father in Boston lost his eight-year-old son on Monday, while his wife and daughter's lives hang in the balance. Almost two hundred people, though they survived the blast with their lives, will forever after live with different bodies than they had before that moment.

On Monday, maybe an hour or two before the bomb exploded in Boston, I sat at lunch explaining to a new friend what it was like to be in downtown Manhattan on 9/11, because she asked. It doesn't come up often. For many of us, that experience of watching our city burn, of breathing the smoke and seeing the photos of the missing collect on lampposts and bus stops, is like a barely-healed wound. We try not to pick at the scab.

I told her that I decided that day in 2001, when I was 26 years old and had barely started a new career in publishing after a gear switch out of academia, that I wanted to have a baby; that I didn't want to wait until I was older. Because how could I be sure that I would be around in some unknown future? That's what 9/11 felt like to me: a cliff that the world almost fell over. The end of time.

The year that would follow held yet more difficulty for my family. That winter, Josh's sister Nina was in a traumatic car accident in which she lost her left arm.

Returning on the train to NYC from visiting Nina in the hospital in Boston, I sat next to a psychologist researcher doing work on trauma. (Or maybe I dreamed that I did, because the coincidence seems too strong to be true. But sometimes, this is exactly how life works.) He told me that trauma equals loss and that the loss can take many shapes: a person, a limb, or even a state of innocence. Healing from trauma involves acknowledging and mourning the loss. And it takes time.

I wish those amputee victims in Boston could talk to Nina now, and see all the ways in which she has reclaimed her self; how she has fought to be the powerful and capable person that she is, even without the arm that she was born with.

Some people argued after 9/11, as they always will, that it is futile to bring children into a violent world. But there's a difference between being aware of fragility and giving up hope.

I became pregnant with my first child in the spring of 2002, within months of both 9/11 and Nina's accident. That baby was, for me and Josh, a source of healing.

Yes, I am reminded this week, yet again, that life is fragile. That although it may feel that way sometimes, getting my kids ready for school--like most of our daily stresses--is way less than dire. But let's not let the horror in Boston take away our hope. Sending thoughts of healing and strength straight up 95 North...