This past weekend, my heart spiraled.

Anxiety, fear, and that deeply rooted, almost primal type of protectiveness only a mother can explain took hold of me and it hasn’t really let go since.

We had a slow, cozy kind of afternoon, the kind where you don’t think twice about staying in your pajamas past noon. We were watching movies in the lounge. Me, hubby, baby boy nestled in my arms, and our six-year-old, also known as “Big Boy,” growing restless, as he often does when the plot doesn’t involve superheroes or dinosaurs.

Within minutes, he darted off upstairs to play with his Legos, which he’s only allowed to use when baby brother is safely out of reach (avoiding #chokinghazards).

And then, out of nowhere, it happened.

Pop. Pop-pop-pop.

That sound. That unmistakable sound that immediately transported me back to my teenage years. We grew up in the kind of neighborhood where you don’t ask if it was a gunshot, you just knew. My body didn’t wait for my brain to catch up. Instinct took over. I grabbed the baby and ran for the stairs. Hubby was right behind me. Big Boy’s room faces the front of the house – too exposed, too vulnerable. My only thought was: Get both kids. Get them close. Make them safe.

After what felt like an eternity (but was maybe only minutes), things calmed. Sirens in the distance. My heartbeat began to return to something close to normal. That’s when Big Boy, sitting calmly on his bedroom floor surrounded by Legos, looked up at me and asked:

“Mommy, what was that sound?”

And just like that, I froze.

Because in that tiny, innocent question, I saw every parenting dilemma I’ve ever had all wrapped up in one terrifying moment. Do I tell him the truth? Do I let him in on the evil parts of this world so young? He’s only six. He doesn’t even know what a real gun is. We don’t even allow those toy guns in our home. Not even water guns. And yet here we are, with the real thing disrupting our weekend movie time.

I hated that he had to be exposed to even the sound of a gunshot!

Part of me wanted to educate him. Teach him what that sound meant. Teach him to lie low, stay quiet, and come find mommy or daddy. But another part of me the bigger, louder, more protective part didn’t want him to carry this knowledge yet. I didn’t want to plant fear. I didn’t want to expose him to violence. I didn’t want him to become curious, to chase the sound, to lose that beautiful bubble of childhood where the loudest bangs come from balloons at birthday parties.

So I said: “The sound was coming from the movie daddy and I were watching.”

And then I hated myself for it.

That night, when the house was quiet and the kids were sleeping, I sat on the couch and told my husband that the lie was weighing heavy. He reassured me that in that moment, I made the right call that I acted from love. But we both agreed: this week, we’re sitting Big Boy down and telling him the truth.

Because as much as I want to protect him from the darkness of this world, I don’t want to leave him unprepared for it either. We can’t bubble-wrap them forever. We can’t pretend this stuff doesn’t happen. And he’ll probably hear about it at school anyway from another child.

I know I’ll have to apologize.

I know he’ll say, “But Mommy, you told me it was the movie.”

And I’ll say:

“Baby, remember the loud sound you asked mommy about? It wasn’t from the movie. It was actually gunshots. I didn’t tell you right away because I didn’t want you to be scared. But I also want you to know the truth, and I want you to know that you are always safe when you’re with mommy, daddy, or your teacher at school. And if you ever hear a sound like that again, you lie flat on the ground and stay still. But I promise you we will always do everything we can to protect you.”

Motherhood is a constant balancing act between shielding and sharing.

And this week reminded me that sometimes, being a “good mom” means admitting we don’t always get it right in the moment but that doesn’t mean we won’t circle back with honesty, with heart, and with fierce love.

Because that’s what we do.

We love. We protect. We prepare.

And sometimes, we lie… just a little, until we can find the right words.

tracy-lynn.ruiters@inl.co.za

Weekend Argus 

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