A few weeks ago, I received an email from my daughter’s school that there had been an unplanned lockdown drill that day. The message stated that there had been a wiring malfunction that had been taken care of, and that a regularly scheduled lockdown drill would take place next month. I didn’t really think much of it, to be honest. I was pleased to know that the school was vigilant about parent communication, and went on with my day.
Hours later, at the bus stop, my daughter was buzzing about her day. And that’s when the full picture came into view. Nobody—not even the teachers—knew what was happening when the alarm sounded. Apparently whenever there is a drill, this message plays over the intercom: “Lockdown: This is a drill.” According to my daughter, that day the message said, “Lockdown. Doors locked, out of sight,” but did not contain the words “this is a drill.” And it was not treated or experienced as such.
Children were crying, some sobbing that they didn’t want to die. My daughter, pressed against a child next to her in the closet, said she could feel his legs shaking. Her teacher pushed several desks against the door before joining the kids. This is not what a lockdown drill normally feels like. Can you imagine being a teacher that day, having to accept the possibility that there may be a threat in the building? Whether it was an angry non-custodial parent or an armed stranger, you had to protect a roomful of children from an unknown danger. And you had to prepare for the worst.
My daughter, as you may recall, is extremely sensitive and often anxious. She told me that she was scared and upset, but that she didn’t cry. I tried to piece it together later, how it was even possible that this child of mine who has entered full-on fight-or-flight mode during a thunderstorm, who has run back inside the school building when she was frightened of the wind, kept it together.
It’s not as though she was unaffected; she retold the story nearly a dozen times in the days that followed. The processing was extremely important to her, and empowering in some ways, I suppose. I think the reason she wasn’t overly traumatized during the incident was that, miraculously, violence and “bad guys” aren’t really on her radar. Her particular anxiety trigger happens to be natural disasters, at least for the moment. She may have been completely tuned out to the possibility that there was an intruder in the school who wanted to harm someone; but for other children, and most definitely for the teachers, I suspect that fear was foremost in their minds.
I felt relief that perhaps we’ve managed to shelter her from some of the evil and terror in the world. We never watch the news around her (or, really, at all), and we do not discuss terrorism, abduction, or violence around her. As a Highly Sensitive Person myself, I try to avoid exposure to those types of stories altogether. Two years ago, nearly to the day, a local girl was abducted and murdered, and our daughter was in first grade at the time. We had no choice but to discuss it with her—there was simply no avoiding it. She was told horrifying details at the lunch table by a fellow six-year-old; I was completely unprepared for the conversation we had to have later. She asked questions, and I answered them as honestly as I could. Two months later, Sandy Hook happened. How could I tell her that a classroom full of children exactly her age had been killed? But I did. Somehow, we all did.
For whatever reason, first grade was a low-anxiety year for my daughter. Perhaps those events are no longer on her radar. But of course, they are on mine, on most parents’. And yet we are somehow able to go on. We are somehow able to send our children to school every day, confident that we will greet them again at the end of the day, that they will have been kept safe. We count on it. I drop my daughter off at school or at the bus stop, and we make our plans for afternoon pickup. Is she taking the bus home? Will I meet her at school where the sidewalk turns to grass, where we will cross the street together to pick up her sister at preschool? Her sister, who has also spent a happy day safe amongst her teachers and friends.
We have talked about safety, about strangers and non-strangers, and code words. And then we stop. We move on with our lives. We take it for granted—how could we not? To live with that daily anxiety and hyper-vigilance would be crippling.
Nothing bad happened that day. But it makes me wonder if it is nothing more than a cosmic hiccup when tragedies are avoided. What separates the days when the nebulous threat suddenly manifests from the days when life goes on as usual? Is it excellent safety protocols or vigilant parents or a healthy community that keeps my daughter’s elementary school safe—or is it just luck?
And so I say goodbye to my daughters in the morning before I drive to work. I give my third grader a quick hug and tell her, with all the blind trust and faith in the world, “I’ll see you where the sidewalk ends.”
I am your biggest fan. I read every one of your Blogs. Some I read innumerable times. Some I leave a comment and some I don’t because I am at a loss for words. For whatever reason, when I started reading today, I experienced a lump in my throat, followed by tears welling up as I continued to read. Why? Maybe it was the thought that anything would or could happen to my beloved granddaughters. Possibly looking at the beautiful trusting face of Izzy caused my reaction. I’m not sure. I had listened to Izzy tell and re-tell this lockdown story as it had just happened before we arrived. It wasn’t something new. But for whatever reason, this particular post impacted me in an emotional way that I wasn’t prepared for. I’ll see you where the sidewalk ends………. powerful.
Thanks, Mom. I appreciate your support. xo
Old follower with a new place to come from.. my baby is 14 now and I find myself thinking back after reading this to the big things that happened when mine were little like that. 9/11 comes right to the forefront and the fear I felt at that moment. I picked my boys up that day, right in the middle of the day and they came home. I tried to maintain calm as I kept the news on all day and allowed them to play in the house or yard only. I cannot imagine if I got a call from the school on a lockdown. I would be a mess, an absolute mess..
Nice to see you around here again- thanks for stopping by! It was such a relief that nothing had happened that afternoon- I can’t imagine if the threat had been real.
I have so much to say but nothing to say. I’m mad at the school for not including “this is a drill” but also so happy that Izzy didn’t freak out. And I’m both trusting and terrified. And crying. I don’t know if it’s better or worse that we haven’t had to have these conversations with my son. On one hand, I’m grateful that he doesn’t know that violence is real and not just in the form of Lord Business. On the other, will he know what to do if something happens? I have to trust that he’ll be helped. We haven’t really even had the stranger discussions because he’s afraid of all strangers mostly. Argh. Great post, Steph.
Thanks, love. I don’t know if it’s better or worse, either. :/
Yikes! That’s a really frightening experience – I can’t imagine processing it as an adult, let alone a child. What has this world come to?
Indeed.
So scary! My oldest tends to panic in emergency situations and I can only imagine how she would have freaked if that happened at her school. I glad your daughter was able to keep her wits about her and big kudos to the teachers , too. It is so frightening to think about all the evil things in the world that could happen to our babies, but we can’t live in fear. Sometimes, we just have to have faith and let them go.
Yes, it does come down to having faith and letting go. Which is SO hard. Thanks, Lisa!
Stephanie, this was just beautiful first of all! I remember the first time my daughter experienced a safety drill at her school in kindergarten. She came home and told me all about it. She told me she was shaking and scared. It was in that moment that I realized that I couldn’t always be there to protect her. When Sandy Hook happened, my daughter was also a first grader. It horrified me, and terrified me. I worry now about the fact that my daughter has 34 kids in her class and one teacher in charge. (that’s a whole other issue). One thing my kid’s school does that has given me a little comfort is that they have parents put together a personalized school emergency kit for each child that is kept in the classroom. I wrote a post about it. I think every school needs it! In fact, your post reminded me that I need to get those kits together for this year still. If you’re interested in that post it’s here: http://www.perfectionpending.net/2013/09/20/how-to-create-a-personalized-school-emergency-kit-for-your-child/
It brings me a lot of comfort to know that my child has a note from me, a family picture, and other things to keep them calm in case of a lockdown. Might be worth bringing up to your school and seeing if it’s a program they can implement. 🙂 I’m glad it was just a drill. But, this post reminded me that we can never be too vigilant and take life for granted.
Oh, thank you so much, Meredith. I really appreciate that comment. And I’m going to to check out your post now. 🙂
It’s so sad isn’t it? Last year I walked into the school to volunteer, just before they were doing a similar drill, although I was unaware od it. The lobby was filled with administration and police and my heart went from 0 to 60 and I started to run to my son’s classroom, when the secretary grabbed my arm and said, “this is a drill.” I was shocked. I walked calmly to the class, to find the door locked. I waited outside, and it was over in maybe two minutes? But all I could think was, “What if?” And the fact that the kids had to practice that! It makes me so very sad.
Yes, it is SO sad. Such hard stuff.
It is so freaking difficult to shelter yet still make your child aware. To let them go out into this scary world with confidence that they will be okay. For the safety drills we explain them like fire drills. You have to know where to be in an emergency. I remember when they first started Abby saying, what if I’m in the bathroom. Guess what? The school never thought to tell them what to do. When we reached out the administrators told us thank you, because they revamped the education of the staff and students. On what exactly they should do. It was empowering to Abby because she had a direct impact on making the school safer.
Which sucks because a 2nd grader (at the time) should not have to entertain thoughts of where to hide in a bathroom.
YES. It is so hard to shelter and still make our kids aware. It feels impossible. And I agree- a 2nd grader should never have to think about those things.
Stephanie, this is very powerful stuff! This should make us all hug our loved ones a little tighter tonight……
Thanks for that, Nancy. And yes, big hugs afterward.
See, and I thought you were going to go all Shel Silverstein-y. I still can’t help but picture that illustration on the cover as an illustration of that fear of what might happen to our kids. But you’re right that we can’t go there, we can’t drop off that ledge, we can’t spend our lives worrying about the what ifs. Even if, as anxious people, our minds tell us that is productive, that that will help prepare us for the possibility of awful. This is the constant battle of my brain.
It’s a battle in my brain, too. I think of that book every time I say that to my daughter: “See you where the sidewalk ends.” Thanks for such a thoughtful comment.
The first time my son came home and told me they had a lockdown drill, I was terrified that he was scared because he’s my sensitive one. He wasn’t scared. But he knew it was a drill. The next year they had a lockdown because of an armed man in the area. I asked him about it and he told me it was a drill. I don’t know if they said it was a drill or that he is just so naive that he figured it had to be a drill. My anxious heart is just not ready for the day when there is a real one and he feels scared. This is a beautiful post. Extra hugs to all the kids tonight.