But What Do We Tell The Children?

I think about this a lot. What to tell the children. What not to tell the children. Which questions I can answer honestly. Which ones I can't.

And which ones are likely to lead to embarrassing moments while in line at the grocery store.

I thought about this even more in the immediate aftermath of the recent tragedy in Connecticut. I tried to guard them from it. I kept the news off. The TV off. The radio off. The one time I thought it was safe to turn the radio on to listen to music, the DJ barged in before the song was even over, with specific details about the shootings.

N was in the car with me that time, but I hoped she didn't hear it, as our plan was to not say anything to her about it. She's seven. Seven. I just don't see why a seven year old needs to know that such horror exists in the world.

As it got closer to her going back to school, however, I thought of a boy in her class who frequently told her that the world was going to blow up just before Christmas. He's another seven year old. I'm not sure why he knows about things like that. Maybe another seven year old told him. Maybe he overheard it on the radio. Maybe he has older siblings. Maybe his parents don't think its a big deal for their seven year old to have knowledge of the alleged apocalypse.

Maybe I will even feel differently when it's my youngest child who is seven, and not my oldest.

In any case, I realized that it was possible that this boy would also have some information about what happened in Connecticut, and might feel it was appropriate to share. So, rather than have N hear scary things in the middle of the school day and spend the rest of her day freaked out, I told her an abbreviated, somewhat true version that didn't even touch on the actual horror that took place. It was enough, I hoped, to keep her from having a meltdown if she heard something about schools and guns and shootings, but not enough to give her nightmares. And then I told her that people might say other things about it, and some of what they said might not be true.

So yes, I lied. And then I implied that anyone who told her a different version was lying. I mentioned this, quite matter of factly, to a friend, and my friend told me that she hoped I didn't feel bad about lying, because after all, none of us know how to deal with situations like this, and we just do the best we can in the moment.

I appreciate her support. Truly, I do. But just to be clear: I don't feel bad for lying to my seven year old about something like this. Not one iota. I lie to my kids all the time. The ice cream store is closed. I didn't bring any money, so you can't get something from the gumball machine. God miraculously sends you babies when you get married. If you don't go to sleep right this moment, Santa Clause/The Tooth Fairy/The Easter Bunny is not coming tonight.

So, why would I feel bad about lying about something as horrific as this?

Apparently, though, a lot of parents believe that honestly has to be the best policy when it comes to what they tell their kids--even when it came to this. They felt that they had to tell their kids everything, because they didn't want them to hear it somewhere else. They felt that they were doing their children a disservice by not being completely truthful. They felt that, since their kids had watched the news coverage on TV with them, they had to tell them the truth.

Um, I guess turning off the TV wasn't an option?

One of the many mixed blessings of parenting is that we all get to decide for ourselves how to do it. And obviously, everyone has to make their decisions based on what's best for their particular child. I've heard a few parents, however, suggest that the only way for any (good) parent to handle this was to tell their children the truth. While it's certainly their right to handle it with their own children as they feel they need to, when I hear parents of seven, six, and even five year olds declaring across the board that "honesty is the best policy", and "silence sends the wrong message", and "dishonesty leads to mistrust"--even when it comes to circumstances so horrific that many adults can't even wrap their heads around them--I have to wonder where our common sense has gone.

These are our children. Our job is to protect them, not only from things that could physically harm them, but from things that could psychologically harm them. Sometimes protecting them means telling them scary things, like that not all strangers are good, and how to get out of the house in case of a fire, and that people can get really hurt if they don't wear their seatbelts. There's a benefit to that kind of knowledge. And as kids get older, there is likely a benefit to sharing knowledge of other things--even things as horrific as this.

But do I feel a need to be completely truthful about traumatic events with my seven year old? No. I don't.

My goal is to protect her. And keep her safe. And let her be a child for as long as I possibly can.

Sometimes that may mean that I lie.

I can live with that.