Back to a regular flow of blogging now that the class is over. Insightful, it was. Now I'm a graduate from the school, and wondering what to do next in my life. But that's beside the point.
Here's why I am writing today. I was going to post it on my Facebook, kind of reach out to the other parents that inhabit my friends list, but the very last post I made about the topic started a wildfire. It was gruesome, abusive, and people who didn't know other people were nearly ripping each other apart which made me delete the post and rethink posting what I was near to posting today. But my blog is safe.
Yesterday I took my son to the doctor. In the waiting commons there are numerous TV's, all flashing across the screen with the news of the aftermath of Boston. I had not discussed it with my son, who is 8 - not because I didn't want to, but because we finished out the day before as busy as we are everyday. Bud, my son, is much more wise than I give him credit for, and as the flashes of gore on the screen were exposed to him, he watched and to my dismay read the headline news. His awe was striking, he furrowed his barely-there brows and frowned, I caught the look he gave and knew the question was happening.
"Boston - it's kind of like New York, right? It's a big city with a lot of people there, isn't it?" I nodded to him, and distracted myself away from the conversation with a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors with my 6 year old daughter.
"Those aren't fireworks, are they? The words say they're bombs." I nodded, and quietly agreed and told him, yes, they were bombs. His silence and drifting eyes allowed me to believe all he needed to know was answered. But as I shot a second look, he was intently staring at the TV, his hands clutched the wood armrests of the pleather waiting-room chair, and he shook his head. I followed his gaze back to the TV, and wondered then if we sat someplace else he would be blind to the image and text. However, the TV's are in a row, no matter where we sit, we're faced staring at the image of Martin, 8, holding a sign that declares no more hurting people, just peace. One of the casualties of the bombing. I followed the screen to my sons face, who stared at it with tears in his eyes.
"Mommy, is that boy dead?" I told him yes, and felt the eyes of the group around me shift and stare. Why did I feel like I was telling him something top secret? "It says he has a sister and she's 6, like Bean? But she lost her leg and his mommy is wounded?" He looked at Bean, who was now looking up at the TV, but not with the same coherence as her brother. I sunk a little in my chair, as he read off how many were deceased, how many were injured, and the fact that he couldn't get through his head what had happened.
"He's my age. That's how old I am. He had a sign that said peace. He didn't like people hurting people, so why did he die?" He curled his face up, an expression that resembles his dads, and yet so innocent that it curled my insides. I felt the heavy eyes of people around me and sighed, I shrugged and told him the truth, "I don't know. I don't know why people did that, Bud." He turned back to the TV, still thinking about it. Understanding without understanding it. I pointed out all the people that ran to help, trying to balance his sudden knowledge of evil in the world, by revealing all the good. All the people that dropped everything to save people. But he still seemed jilted, saying, "It's so scary."
Was it wrong of me to tell my son the truth? How could I lie to him when he's reading the words right off of the TV and asking me honest questions? I'm not ready for him to be this smart. I'm not ready to expose him to a world far worse than videogame and movie villians.
