A year before, my children had to deal with the aftermath of 9-11: living in Washington, D.C., they had to contend with the roar of low-flying fighter jets and helicopters crisscrossing over our house, tanks in the streets, tales of families who had suitcases packed and escape routes planned in case Washington came under fire again. Then came the anthrax scare and my warnings to them not to touch the mail. Because the media were being targeted, I put a hold on visits to Mom’s office. For the third time in little more than a year, the story that was dominating the headlines was also intruding into my children’s lives. I was used to writing about such tragedies affecting other people’s kids. Now I realized what an insular and privileged vantage I had had.
Things got worse when the snipers critically wounded a 13-year-old as he was entering his middle school one Monday morning. My 6-year-old, who had peppered me with questions about the 9-11 attacks, was asking me nothing now.
But he was back to sneaking into my bed in the middle of the night. My 15-year-old had become a careful newspaper reader overnight. My 12-year-old wouldn’t talk about the shootings–until Police Chief Charles Moose announced that the sniper had left a note saying, “Your children are not safe at any place at any time.” That night she slipped into my bed and asked quietly, “Why would someone want to kill kids?” Is there a good answer to that question?
