Must we protect our children from the worst kinds of stories?

My friend Stephanie alerted me earlier this week to a horrifying story about a woman our age, 40 or so, who was on a bike ride with her family during their vacation last week when she somehow strayed into the path of a truck. From the coverage I read, she was killed instantly as her family rode along with her.

Stories like this are almost unbearable to contemplate, and yet I know my response is typical: I can’t stop thinking about it, horrible as it is. This story strikes at the heart of our darkest fears for two reasons, I think: one, because of the thought of grade school-aged children losing their mother forever in the course of one split second; and two, because of the trauma of having the children not only have to experience the horror of losing a parent but having to actually witness the event. The latter part makes it almost too painful to articulate in our own minds.

And yet while I dwell on the tragedy of a family I don’t even know, I feel unable to share the story with my children. I feel that it’s just too frightening to tell them about this, and I’m almost sure most of the parents I know would agree with me. But sometimes I can’t help questioning where this particular taboo comes from. When my children are at their most rambunctious or frustrating, I can think to myself, “But nonetheless, thank heavens I have them. Difficult as parenting can be, it would break my heart to lose them.” And yet I feel like I can’t introduce my children to that sentiment, to what is basically a carpe diem concept: take a minute to be grateful for what you have. Parenting norms seem to dictate that we have to protect our children from an awareness of the worst that could happen, unless of course it actually does happen to them or someone they know well, in which case we have no choice but to confront it.

But in this particular case of the family out for a bike ride, my children do not know them, and there’s no compelling reason for me to inflict on them the pain of hearing such an awful story….except that I believe on some level it might be instructional, just as it is for us parents to remember the worst that could happen to our children and, consequently, how important it is to us to keep them safe and to appreciate them.

Yesterday, my seven-year-old yelled at me and stomped around for no more than the fact that I couldn’t help her solve a particular problem she was having writing a scene in her newest book. She couldn’t decide what the teenage girl should say to the protagonist to best reflect her innate meanness. I made a few suggestions, to which Holly reacted with “Why would I have my characters say something so stupid?” She was as cross as a hive of hornets because I couldn’t help her write dialogue. On the one hand, this is a little bit amusing. Since I’m a writer myself, it’s funny that the thing that most sets off tantrums in my seven-year-old is writer’s block. On the other, it so vividly reflected the lack of perspective that children have. Meanwhile, my eleven-year-old was cross with me for putting a guilt trip on him for insisting that he help me make beds rather than watch TV.

At these times, I dwell on the thought that my children just don’t understand what it means to have their parents present in their lives. Wouldn’t Holly rant a little less, or Tim sulk a little less, if I could just tell them about the two children who just lost their mother?

But that generally is not considered an appropriate approach with children. We can’t scare them like that. We can tell them how much we love them and how unhappy we would be without them, but we can’t turn the tables and say “I know you’re annoyed with me for forgetting to buy cream cheese, but aren’t you glad for the simple fact that I’m here when you wake up every morning?” It just isn’t considered age-appropriate to take that approach.

Right now, the story about the family on vacation is so awful that it’s hard to draw much more of a lesson than horror from it. But someday, I tell myself, my kids will understand more about the fleeting and often arbitrary nature of life. And then maybe they’ll be a little slower to grow cross with me over my demands that they help with housework.