This morning, I watched as my five-year-old, Max, boarded the bus for his third day of kindergarten. As it drove away with his beaming smile, I felt a lump in my throat. Part of my heart was riding along with him. Max turned five on December 14, 2012, the same day a tragic event occurred when twenty children boarded a bus for school and never returned home. As we send our little ones off to school this fall, I can’t shake the weight of Newtown from my mind.
The thought of those bright, eager faces and the families who now live with an empty space in their hearts weighs heavily on me. While I focus on Max, I can’t help but think of the void left in a world that feels a bit dimmer without their children.
On his second day of kindergarten, Max excitedly told me about gym class—his favorite part of the day. But then he mentioned something unsettling: they practiced a lockdown drill. They locked the classroom doors, turned off the lights, and learned to hide beneath their desks. He assured me that if a “bad stranger” were to come to the school, his teacher would protect him and that he would follow the drill. Hearing this, a small part of my heart broke.
In 2013, this is what kindergarten entails: gym and lockdown drills.
I’m proud of Max’s school for handling such a complex issue with sensitivity, explaining it to our children in a way they can understand. Yet, it’s hard to grasp that this is now a necessary part of their education. I think of Max and the tragedy of Newtown—a mix of hope, promise, and sorrow that makes my heart ache.
Then, out of nowhere, Max asked me if the bad stranger would come for him. I looked at him and, with a certainty I didn’t truly feel, I lied and told him, “Your school is safe. All the doors are locked.” But he followed up with, “What if the bad stranger breaks down the doors?” I lied again, “This will never happen.” Deep down, I know the reality we live in, yet sometimes, a lie feels like the best way to shield them, even if just for a moment.
I remember my own kindergarten days—there was a big playhouse in the center of the room, and I think I learned the Pledge of Allegiance. That simple world feels like a distant memory. Preparing our children for today’s realities—emotionally and educationally—requires us to confront issues that are far more complex than they once were. And perhaps that’s just how it must be; we can’t turn back time.
Today’s kids seem to have knowledge about things I wish they didn’t have to understand. Even at 35, I want to believe that no bad strangers exist. I wish I could just close the curtains, lock the doors, and hide under the furniture with my little ones, pretending for a moment that I have the power to keep them safe. Yet, the real world always manages to seep in, reminding us that there are no guarantees.
So this fall, I must let Max go, recognizing that my deep love for him is matched only by my limited control over what lies ahead in this vast world. I glance up just in time to see his bus rounding the corner, his smiling face coming into view. For today, at least, my heart feels whole and safe, if only for a little while.
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In summary, the experience of sending a child to kindergarten in 2013 is tinged with both excitement and fear. As parents, we navigate a world where safety drills are part of the curriculum, and we strive to protect our children from the harsh realities of life while cherishing the simple joys of childhood.
Keyphrase: Kindergarten realities
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