In a
toddlers' music class, a circle of mothers sings a song about the stars -- a
spiritual, with a haunting melody. As we sing, our children take turns
carefully placing felt stars just so on a black felt sky. They smile with surprise and delight as
the stars take their rightful place in the universe. The children are aware of nothing but their sense of
accomplishment and wonder. And
during this sweet interlude we, their parents, can briefly forget that
terrorists attacked the United States only hours before.
When
something horrible happens, the primordial instinct to protect your children
kicks in with vigor. I want to
shield mine from frightening television images of the attacks on the World
Trade Center and the Pentagon; keep them away from conversations about the evil
forces that caused these things to happen. So we spend September 11 in strange oblivion, driving out to
the suburbs to shop for school clothes, sharing a chocolate covered graham
cracker before heading home. My
daughters don't know that I am trying to avoid driving on freeways and bridges
that might be targets of future attacks.
In the car, instead of taking turns listening to kids' music or mine, I
bargain for brief snatches of the news, explaining that "something
happened." Weeks later I will
be surprised when my older daughter Melanie begins using this expression as a
catch-all excuse for her mercurial behavior.
After the
kids go to bed, I am finally able to digest the horrific details of the
day. I wonder aloud to Jeff
whether we should send Melanie to her first day of pre-school the next morning. Though I expect no threat to our little
corner of America, the thought of having her out of my sight -- even for a few
hours -- is unnerving. At school
orientation the week before, I'd gotten unexpectedly emotional when asked to
sign forms releasing the school from liability should anything happen during
field trips. Now that the unthinkable
has occurred, I wonder why I was in such a hurry to send Melanie out from under
my protective wing.
We decide
to avoid disruption. Life is
topsy-turvy enough and we don't know how to deal with the recent changes in
Melanie. A summer trip to Maine to
visit family has left her raw and clingy, prone to violent temper tantrums,
refusing to sleep alone. She has
decided to move from her crib to a bed, is potty training herself and is
dealing with powerful feelings of jealousy, as her baby sister Maya becomes
more active. And she is also
starting pre-school. In terms of
the stress they produce, for a 2 1/2-year-old these changes are akin to the
adult concerns of death, divorce, moving and job change. Also, I read in my parenting books,
this is the age when children begin to experience fear.
Fear. We try talking about it.
"Are you afraid to sleep alone in
your room?" we ask, half hoping she will identify a monster under the bed
that we can chase away.
Melanie professes no fear, but runs
into our room crying each night, comforted only if one of us sleeps with
her. During the day she begins to
use the concept of fear freely, more to reflect a 2-year-old's inner turmoil
over impending independence and the power of choice than to express real terror.
"Do you want a bagel for
breakfast?" we ask.
"No, I'm afraid of bagels!"
she responds.
The
nighttime sleep disruption continues.
So does her erratic behavior during the day. I feel suffocated by her neediness, exhausted by her
emotional outbursts and my own emotional response to them. Finally, in desperation I call
her pediatrician.
"Melanie is suffering from anxiety
and needs you now more than ever," she tells me. "Make a nest on the floor of your room so she can be
near you when she is upset at night."
Jeff rises
to the occasion and lays out a double futon with soft yellow blankets. He adorns it with Melanie's favorite
stuffed cats and an array of brightly colored picture books. I am not pleased.
"You've made too nice a
nest!" I wail. "Now
she'll NEVER sleep in her own room!"
Each night Melanie comes to our room and
I begrudgingly go to sleep with her in the nest. Each day she demands bear hug after bear hug, usually when I
am occupied with her baby sister.
Sleep deprived and frustrated, feeling that I have nothing more to give,
I wonder when her anxiety would be alleviated. When will things return to normal?
In the
meantime, the country struggles to make sense of jets crashing into towers,
bodies falling from the sky, huge numbers of missing people. I remain strangely numb. People want to speculate on the
political motivation for the attacks but I, a former diplomat with experience
in the Islamic world, don't want to talk about it. The newspapers are filled with the extraordinary
details of how the plots were masterminded. I want to find answers in parenting books instead. As the days pass and a shocked country
grieves, I shut out the turmoil in the world and become more and more consumed
by the turmoil in my own home.
Finally one
morning I cry as I listen to a radio story about a hero of Flight 93, who left
behind a wife and 3-month old daughter.
Later, I speak with a friend in New York, the mother of two daughters
roughly the same ages as mine.
Then I realize why I have deliberately turned inward. My kids still have
the luxury of innocence. Theirs
don't, and neither do any of the thousands of children left without a parent as
a result of these attacks. One day
I will have to explain about murder and guns and evil and disease and divorce
and the countless senseless human tragedies that can't be fixed. But not now. Not yet. I
still have some time.
So I decide
to embrace my ability to make Melanie's world a safe haven and concentrate on
the things I can make better. Each
night at bedtime I take her outside.
We look up at the sky, identify the stars and I sing her the star
song. When she cries in the middle
of the night, I willingly snuggle up in the nest with her. During the day I am freer with bear
hugs. I want to do all in my power
to dispel any anxiety she feels and to forestall the inevitable -- the wiping
away of innocence as she learns to be afraid of bigger things, things I can't
protect her from. It'll happen soon
enough.
About a
week after the attacks, when we go outside to sing the star song, there is a
lone airplane in the evening sky -- the first I have seen since September
11. For me it signifies so much --
the horror that has occurred, the need for life to continue as normal. I wonder if I will ever look at an
airplane the same way again. But
for Melanie these are just magical, twinkling lights. It is still too light to see any stars so I point at the
airplane lights and sing:
Star shining, number, number
one, number two, number three
Oh my, my, my, my
Oh my, my, my, my, my
As she burrows her head against my
shoulder, Melanie doesn't realize that the stars are not out tonight. I am glad. And I wish I could believe in magic again too.
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