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July
18, 2002, 8:45 a.m. By Susan Konig |
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ommy, can
I go over there and be with Aunt Lisa?"
My seven-year-old daughter, bored of sitting with her brothers and me on a bench in the mall, wanted to stand with her cool aunt in the checkout line of Macy's a few dozen yards away. I could almost see Lisa from where we were, but not quite.
"No," I said.
"You don't think I can do anything but I'm big enough to go in there by myself," she huffed.
I took a deep breath and hoped I could explain without scaring all three of my kids. "Hon, see how there's a big sign over there blocking us from seeing Aunt Lisa? Well, what if there was a bad person behind that sign waiting for you?"
My two-year-old and his five-year-old brother craned their necks to see if there was indeed a bad guy behind the sign.
Samantha Runnion, the five-year-old girl snatched in a moment in front of her Southern California apartment complex, was out of sight of her caretaker grandmother. A frenzied madman, driven to find a child, sexually abuse her, and kill her, dumped Samantha by the side of the road. There's no mystery here, no dubious family behavior. Just a random nightmare.
I've lost track of my kids before, even had my neighbor bring back my two-year-old when he decided to go next door to see her dog without telling anyone. I was mortified, grateful. Now it's faded to an amusing family story.
"I know you can do many things," I told my daughter. "But Daddy and I don't want to lose you and so we're extra careful."
She seemed dissatisfied but Lisa appeared and the moment passed.
"If we were bigger, we could fight with the person and beat him up," my five-year-old son decided as we left the mall.
"Maybe, I said, "but it would be better never to be in that situation. That's why we don't walk in alleyways and empty parks and dark streets."
We linked hands, looked both ways, and crossed the road to where the minivan was parked.
As parents, we can strap our kids in car seats, make them wear helmets for skating and biking, and forbid them to do at least ten possibly dangerous things each day.
We double lock the doors at night. Often a child's bed is only steps from our own. We may not sleep through the night. We check on them and awake immediately at the tiniest utterance of "momma."
We urge them never to go with anyone who promises a puppy or candy or toys. We tell them to yell if someone says not to. We tell them to run if someone says stay.
We still worry. We still pray that a power greater than the most diligent mother will keep them safe. We pray that somehow we'd be able not to act with the murderous vengeance that is in our hearts if anyone should ever harm them.
— Susan Konig, a journalist, has just written a book, Why Animals Sleep So Close to the Road (And Other Lies I Tell My Children).