The Truth.

This is the first time I have omitted the truth from my children's lives. I just cannot bring myself to do, though I know in my heart I should. I have spoken with them about so many different tragedies- some close, some far, some within their lifetimes, some so long before- but this one, this hurt, well, this one is too close for me to find a way to sit down and talk to them about it.

They watched me cry in Oklahoma City as I walked through the memorial and remembered that day. They cried when I explained the meaning behind the chairs in the Field of Empty Chairs- especially when I asked them who they thought the smaller chairs were meant to represent. They're smart. They knew. And they hurt for those children and those families.

They watched me cry in NYC as we walked around downtown and I stared at the hole in the skyline. We looked at pictures of the towers and talked about what happened. I explained it, showed them pictures of the attack, and told them of the people who lost all hope that day as they lost their lives. As we stood on the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building, they looked down and cried, sobbing at the thought that for some people, jumping from that height was a far better option than facing what was behind them.

We have talked about the space shuttle Challenger and Christa McAulliffe and how that was one of the scariest days of my life, watching that happen live on television, not knowing what it really meant until I saw my teachers break down in tears in front of all of us.

We have talked about Hurricanes Sandy, Ike, Katrina, and Andrew and about the disaster and destruction they brought to the areas they impacted. We have talked about how, for some, recovery was never an option and the only hope for moving on is leaving everything behind. For them the thought of nothing, nothing being left, was despair.

When Uilleam was born we talked about loss of children and of new infants. They hugged me and each other and cried in fear, in hope, and in love for him and for all the little babies born too early and with fate in their way.

When a young boy in our city died of a horrible, yet preventable, illness, we spoke of his loss, his family, their passion for helping to protect others now, and how he will always be remembered as such a young boy. They tear at the thought of his loss and the loss his parents and friends felt and still feel, day after day.

When the tornado hit the nursing home across from their school and destroyed so many homes and buildings last spring, we talked of despair and loss and of fear. Of not knowing. Of not being able to stop it from happening.

There is very little I have kept from them...nothing, really, if you count what I withhold until they ask. Except this time. This one. I cannot do it. I cannot allow my children to feel that they are not safe. I cannot give them that kernel of doubt and darkness that could make them scared to go through the halls alone. I cannot find the courage to speak with them about how one person's horrible decisions have caused so many families' hearts to be broken.

Every day I watch them run in and out of their schools, happy and free and safe in the knowledge that the people there love them, protect them, support them, and would never hurt them. I cannot allow myself to be the one who throws that sliver of suspicion into their conscience, one that would prevent them from continuing to embrace each and every moment as NOW, as LIFE, as LOVE, as FOREVER.

I cannot do this because this time, unlike I every other time, I have no answer for them.

I can explain tornadoes and hurricanes and floods, their infrequencies, statistical improbabilities, and the safeguards we have in place to protect us.

I can explain faulty science and technology, I can explain grown people taking out their rage on other grown people, I can explain being angry at a thing and not a person and how that anger causes you to attack that thing.

 I cannot, however, explain how anyone could look at the face of a child of 6 or 7 or 10 and end that smile. I cannot explain how it could have been any of my children and there would have been nothing I could do to stop it from happening. I cannot explain how I could not have kept them safe.

I have spent the weekend yelling at my kids, playing with my kids, talking with my kids, being with my kids. They make me mad, crazy, frustrated, sad, happy beyond my wildest dreams... and I am so damn fortunate to have them here with me at this moment, at this time. I cannot break this spell and tell them that their world is not as safe as they think it is. Maybe one day I can and will, but for today I will let them rest tight in the thoughts that they will always be okay, out of harm's way, and wrapped in my arms.