The Lies I Tell My Children
My father processed his own trauma through me. He was in the Emergency Service Unit of the NYPD and had seen the most grisly, final destination accidents, violence, and disasters there were. I, in fifth grade, was a captive passenger, listening as we drove from our home in Staten Island over the Verrazano Bridge into Brooklyn where he had responded to a decapitation.
“Head came off in the glove box,” he said. Enraptured with the details, of course I asked for more. A bowling ball stored in the back flew forward and decapitated the victim. Then the car went up in flames.
“Couldn’t tell the difference between the ball and the head.”
The origins of my OCD, no doubt. I thought he was teaching me life lessons then: no potential projectiles in the car. I felt privileged, grateful, and hungry for this information, seedling tidbits that grew anxious roots in my coming of age. In my thirties now, with my own four children, I realize the retelling over and over again was his way of making sense of all he’d seen. The many parenting hours I’ve spent securing shade pulls, plastic bags, electric sockets, and marbles harkens back to this time where I learned there are a myriad of ways both children and adults die.
So this December when my seven- and ten-year-old sons came inside from the bus whispering, I knew something happened. The seven-year-old wouldn’t fess up. His older, more dutiful brother waited until we were alone and unburdened himself. The fake toy retractable knife we bought at the spy shop the weekend before was confiscated by the bus driver. His little brother brought it to school despite my telling him he couldn’t under any circumstance. Instead, he stabbed himself repeatedly in the abdomen to entertain his friends. Second-born sons take rules as soft suggestions, much more likely to test boundaries for themselves. The driver saw the contraband and passed it along to the vice principal.
Now in a rational, grown-up mind, mother me could see the whole thing as a learning experience. Children grow by making mistakes, by disobeying and slamming headfirst into a consequence. But trauma responses don’t stay locked in a chest in the attic of our minds. When I encounter situations that conjure up my own childhood fears, it feels nearly impossible not to factory reset to my parents’ default mode of childrearing.
I told my boys about the severity of weapons at school. How children and teachers have gotten hurt. That even though it’s a toy, it inspires real and unnecessary fear in others. When I noticed my second son checking out and growing bored with my spiel, I resorted to more truth.
“Twenty kindergarteners were killed in school. This is serious.”
When my eldest filled up with tears, I realized what I’d done.
“Kindergarteners?” he repeated. He must’ve pictured his two youngest brothers, three and six, and the five-year-old babies he passes in his elementary school hallway, with their cartoon backpacks and toddler waddles to the lunchroom. I nodded, emphasizing the severity of the news as I helped them into their snow gear to play outside.
Later, I told a friend what I’d done.
“Please tell me you did not give them the details of Sandy Hook.” I grew nauseous then, thinking of my small children worrying about someone gunning them down in their school desks. My sons’ Christmas lists were full of Legos, monkey bars, cartoon video games, and stuffed animals. I introduced an adult reality to their holiday season of tiptoeing elves, hot chocolate, and childhood magic.
When the older boys came in from sledding, I told them I made it all up.
“Kindergarteners didn’t die,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I was trying to make sure you knew it’s serious to even play with toy weapons these days.” A babysitter had asked me prior permission to get the boys Nerf guns for Christmas, with rubber bullets a house of four boys would surely love. I thought of the hypocrisy of my answer—no, we don’t allow toy weapons in our home—after purchasing our kids a toy knife.
“Mom made a mistake even buying it,” I continued, helping them out of their wet snow pants.
“Whefph,” my eldest said. “Who would hurt kindergarteners?” He shook his head in disbelief.
“No one,” I lied. “It’s my fault. But you don’t need to worry. People have gotten hurt, but that really awful thing didn’t happen.”
I saw relief wash over their faces as I hung their hats and gloves on the radiator. Or did I want it to be relief? They said they understood. It wouldn’t happen again; they’d listen next time. We both lied.
That night when I was alone with my husband, emotion boiled to the surface.
“I’m doing the same thing to them.” My husband knows I’ve been with my therapist for almost twenty years now, as long as we’ve been together, working on this very thing.
I’d never thought of how young I was sitting in my father’s car on long trips to travel basketball. My eldest resembles me the most—tall with thick, strawberry blonde hair, freckles across his nose and cheeks, and the same sense of empathy and curiosity I had. I see myself in him, but had never before considered how young I was, how young I looked, how child-like I must’ve been learning about the horrors of my father’s police work.
For the first time, I grieved for ten-year-old me holding those awful truths. The decapitations, the burned alive, the drunk man frozen in the yard, the seven babies who died in his arms before Christmas one year. All the terrible things my small body carried with him because I thought he loved me enough to protect his experiences, trusted me enough to understand their impact, to shoulder the gravity with him, and shield myself for a dangerous, unpredictable future.
“I told the boys I lied,” I said to my husband. “You think they believe me?”
“Yes,” he said—far too fast, without proper consideration or eye contact, knowing what I needed to hear.
Soon my children will learn the truth: that babies are murdered in their desks, that terrible, gruesome awful tragedies happen every single day. Some we can control but don’t; others we can’t. These truths will be unearthed slowly, one by one.
It’s easier to keep the secret of fairies stealing teeth and bunnies who deliver candy to preserve their childhood than it is to pretend the world we’re raising our children in is safe, or fair, or even halfway decent. Every day, parents in America operate with a high level of cognitive dissonance to get our kids dressed for school, pack their backpacks, and say “I love you’s” knowing that gun violence is now the leading cause of death for our children. We know mass shootings occur at school, church, movie theaters, or large public gatherings where our children frequent. And yet, we send them in with hope, unassured trust, Instagram posts, and more calls to our representatives.
As middle school approaches, I’ll tell my boys about the reality of the world with intention, when it feels necessary. In the meantime, I pray they don’t learn it firsthand. Frequently, it takes all my energy to pause and stop myself from arming my elementary aged children with plans for an active shooter. I can hear what my father’s advice would be. Block the door with a chair, shut the lights, flip the desks, crouch down and hide quietly. Text 911. But I stop myself from passing it on; the importance of my children feeling secure far outweighs my desire to train them for an encounter with a militant in art class. Parents in America may be robbed of our primary purpose—the ability to keep our children safe—but I refuse to also steal my boys’ fleeting sense of peace, wonder, and joy.
About the Author
Samantha K. Smith is a writer living in New York. Her published work can be found in The New York Times, Granta Magazine, Slate, CNN, The Washington Post, and elsewhere. Follow her on X & Threads: @samanthakristia.
