Newtown Connecticut

Today my daughter came into my room to read a book while I was blogging. After about twenty five minutes of silence she pipes up and asks me, "in America are you allowed to own a gun?"

Lovely, how do I answer? I thought about it for a minute and then tried explaining to her that America is so great, you can have SO much freedom, you can even own a gun. "But guns kill people, why would someone want one?"

It was hopeless to try to explain it. I told her, I really wasn't sure why someone would want to own a gun, but if they do own one they are supposed to keep it locked away. She then told me how she visited an antique dealers office with her father one day, "the day of the Newtown thing," and they saw Abe Lincolns desk, his chair, and then on his chair there was a gun. She continued on to tell me that it didn't have bullets and asked if it didn't have bullets can it hurt someone.

I then asked her what she knew about Newtown. She knew A LOT. Way more than I had mentioned to her (being that she is 9 years old) on that fateful day so that in case it came up, she would have a general idea of the story.

She tried to hide her tears as she asked me if we knew anyone that was shot. Were there any Jews? Wasn't there a person named Posner? How old were the people? I struggled to explain...

She then spiraled into telling me that when she heard about Newtown she got chills. She realized that her school was not safe. Too many doors left open, too many windows. If only they could have swipe cards for each family to enter the building.  Her next suggestion was that they build a HUGE gate around the whole school.  She asked what type of security would be set in place to guarantee that anyone who does not belong entering the school is kept out. She also wanted to know where the nearest police, fire, and doctor offices were. And told me she never ever wanted to be home alone, even when she is married with kids.

At long last I tried to impress that these things are not normal. They don't happen everyday, and that the killer was CRAZY. The damage is done however, her innocence taken, because she knows that this happened.

We try to shelter and protect our children, we hold them delicately like raw eggs in the palms of our hands. A lot good it does, they still have to face real life sometime.

As we ended the conversation and she finally got into bed, I heard her say the bedtime prayer Shema, loud, with emotion, each word pronounced. This made me smile, her deep faith in G-d. Yet it made me shutter as I realized my palms were not the cushion they once were.