Monday, September 12, 2011

It's Not Fair

On the morning of September 11, 2001, Ian and I were preparing for his first day of preschool. Despite the enormity of what was occurring in our nation, or perhaps because of it, we proceeded to the nursery school at Holy Trinity Lutheran Church where similarly dazed parents put on brave smiles for each other and their little ones. It seems like a lifetime ago. It seems like only yesterday.

At age three, Ian was too young to be fully aware of the tragic events of that day, but at some point during his education, he and his classmates were taught that "terrorists attacked the World Trade Centers and the Pentagon, and they had a third plane but it crashed somewhere in Pennsylvania." That's the condensed version as Ian has relayed it to me. Of course as adults we know that there are no words to adequately describe the atrocities of the attacks that forever changed the heart and soul of our nation.

If you've been a Freakin' Angels reader for awhile, you're undoubtedly aware of my parenting style. Or lack thereof, depending on your point of view. You may recall that I have confessed that I don't believe in hiding reality from children. I don't believe we should sugar-coat or minimize the bad while accentuating the good. And sometimes, I think the ugly reality is exactly what our kids need. Yesterday was one of those days.

As I dressed for church I watched the news coverage of the anniversary tributes to the victims of 9/11. And like the rest of America, my heart broke all over again for those who lost friends and loved ones, for those firefighters and EMTs who raced knowingly to their deaths in order to save lives, and for the heroes of Flight 93 who sacrificed themselves by taking down the plane that was headed to our nation's capitol. I was captivated and pained by the heartrending stories of survival, the tributes children paid to the fathers they never knew, and the songs sung in remembrance. I was reminded of the thousands of lives lost in the war on terror which essentially began on that fateful day.

And some terrible part of me wanted to force my children to sit in front of the television and watch and listen and know.

My children, like most of their peers, live in a land close to make believe. Whether it's the "pixels" they shoot at it in their video games, or the expectation of wishes routinely granted, their lives are blissfully unaware of evil, poverty, violence, tragedy, or hate. They are never burdened with more than a request to unload the dishwasher or take out the trash and to work hard in school.

So yes, I wanted my children to really know about 9/11/01. To feel just a bit of the hurt of 9/11/01. I wanted to drag them away from their games and distractions, sit them in front of the television, and make them understand what our nation was experiencing yesterday. But I couldn't do it. I knew that what I wanted was cruel, even for a "tell it to 'em straight" mom like me. I read the paper, went to church, said my prayers, and returned home to resume life as we know it.

But yesterday afternoon, those fateful words were spoken. I requested my child's assistance with an unpleasant task and the response was "It's not fair." Words that routinely flow from my children's lips the moment disappointment or displeasure introduces itself in their otherwise picture-perfect lives. And in my emotionally raw state, I lost it.
It's not fair? How dare you say it's not fair? It's not fair to go to work in the morning and not come home that night because a terrorist decided to fly a plane into your office building. It's not fair to never know your father because he died before your mother gave birth. It's not fair to pay the ultimate sacrifice while others go about their daily lives oblivious to the cost of freedom.
More emotion and anger than was deserved for the "it's not fair" infraction? Possibly. But truth be told, one of my greatest fears is not another terrorist attack, but rather that I will do wrong by my children and allow them to grow up with a sense of entitlement, a lack of compassion, and a failure to give back a portion of the gifts they have been so generously given.

1 comment:

Andria said...

Really powerful post, Kim.