Every morning, as I drop my son off at school, I envelop him in a warm embrace. I plant a kiss on his forehead and say, “I love you, see you later.” At six years old, he’s already embarrassed by his mom’s affection. All he really wants is to rush inside to join his friends, but I take that precious moment to hold him close.
In today’s world, I can’t help but worry that this might be the last time we see each other. That hug is my way of ensuring he knows how much I love him, just in case he doesn’t hear it again later.
People might accuse me of being overly anxious or even irrational. But I see myself as a realist. We live in a time when the idea of our children returning home from school is fraught with uncertainty. Hugging my son goodbye is one of the few ways I can feel secure. Sure, homeschooling could keep him close, but I want him to learn to navigate the world independently. Yet, every drop-off brings its share of anxiety.
The tragic events at Sandy Hook Elementary occurred just a year before my son was born. I remember sitting on my couch, crying for the mothers who would never embrace their children again. Those innocent kids who were robbed of their future—my heart aches for them. Now my little boy is the same age as those children, and every morning, as I hug him, I think of those moms who would give anything for one more goodbye.
Since Sandy Hook, the landscape of school safety has become increasingly grim. School shootings are now disturbingly common, leading some parents to numb themselves to the fear in order to cope. It’s not healthy to live in constant worry, but the “what ifs” are nearly inescapable. No parent should have to dread the thought of their child not returning home safely, yet we all do.
Recently, my son participated in his first “emergency drill” at school. They avoid calling it a lockdown to prevent scaring the little ones, but my son is easily frightened. Thankfully, his teacher informed me about the drill, allowing me to address his questions at home. It breaks my heart that we even have to discuss these topics, but such conversations are now a reality for many families. I didn’t delve into the details, but we talked about the importance of listening to his teacher and staying calm. I told him to remember how much I love him and to picture me giving him a big hug if he ever feels scared.
When I hug my son goodbye, it feels like my final glimpse of him for the day. I take note of the color of his jacket and the sneakers on his feet. As he walks through the gate towards the cafeteria, I capture that moment in my mind. At least we live just a few blocks from the school, which reassures me that I can reach him quickly if needed.
But what if he’s not the one in danger? The thought sometimes crosses my mind that I could be the one facing harm. Shooters have no boundaries. I could be at the grocery store, and something could happen to me. Without a doubt, my child would be my only concern in that situation.
At the end of summer, we found ourselves in Times Square, and a car backfire was mistaken for gunshots. It was the scariest night of our lives. Thankfully, nothing happened, but that experience made the threat of gun violence all too real. The fear is ingrained in us. I was grateful he was with me that night. Yet, as school started less than a week later, that goodbye hug took on new meaning—an echo of the trauma we both felt.
This year marks my son’s first full day at school. While I had concerns during preschool, they pale in comparison to what I feel now. Emergency drills have become part of their routine, and the fear is palpable. I try not to dwell on it because when I do, I find myself in tears—not out of fear, but out of anger.
Our children shouldn’t have to live with this kind of fear. They shouldn’t dread going to school because of the potential for violence. Parents shouldn’t have to manage the trauma of lockdown drills. What should be a simple act of love—hugging my son goodbye—has become weighted with the fear of “what if.”
Regrettably, I don’t foresee any significant changes happening soon, especially while some prioritize guns over innocent lives. So each morning, I will continue to hug my son goodbye, holding onto that moment of connection.
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In summary, the act of hugging my son goodbye has become a ritual filled with love and anxiety, a bittersweet reminder of the world we live in. Each embrace is a profound acknowledgment of our bond and the uncertainties that accompany parenthood today.
Keyphrase: Saying Goodbye to My Son
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