it takes a village

In the wake of local news stories spewing grim truths like "First Grader Brings Gun to School," conversations with other mom-friends have taken on a different tone lately.

How can stuff like this happen? we wonder aloud. What are his parents thinking? we ask. What could be next? we whisper.

The worst part might even be our ever-decreasing shock as we read story after story, gun after gun, school after school. In some frightening way, we begin to normalize what we hear and read, each incident becoming less shocking -- until it finally happens in our own school or in a school down the street, sparking our fear and disbelief all over again.

"Not in my backyard" becomes "Oh no. Not again."

At a party to celebrate a friend's divorce this week, a woman who has no children of her own, but who is getting to know her partner's young teens, asked aloud "How do you protect your kids as they grow? How do you know they'll make the right decisions? How do you guide them when they become teenagers and can basically do what they like?"

Excellent question. Is there an answer?

For her, navigating the waters of influencing children as they grow into adulthood is like running a marathon with no preparation or training to keep her strong for the long haul. Sure, she gets her "walk breaks" because the three kids visit often, but don't live with her. But when she's in the thick of it, she wonders how much they listen to her or watch her movements for clues on how to push forth into the world on their own.

She offers books and walks in the park. They don't always accept. They don't always see the value. Does she make an impact? she wonders. Is all this sweat even worth anything?

Yet I assure my friend that she has more influence than she believes. She is in an enviable position for moms everywhere trying to make that all-important connection with a child who is on the cusp of shutting out all adults. She's like the cool aunt who makes money doing a creative job, who has a home strewn with things never touched by children, a funky place filled with furniture chosen for its own value, rather than just being "sturdy enough for a family." She lives her days doing as she pleases, answering only to herself. A teen's dream come true.

Maybe my friend doesn't have the luxury of breaking out of the starting line with a babe in arms to mold and shape as she tiptoes through its infancy, picking up the pace when it darts around in toddlerhood, breaking into an all out sprint when the elementary school years hit.

No, she's in full sweat when the three kids are around. She's running at breakneck pace to keep up, without the years and years of training the act of giving birth offers for those who are paying attention.

In the end, I remind my friend that every child benefits from another loving adult who takes more than a passing interest. Kids who are supported by caring adults who aren't their parents have just one more role model to learn from and follow. They are the lucky ones.

I wouldn't be surprised if she continues running alongside these three, taking in their hurts and sorrows as well as their joys and triumphs. And just when she gets used to the pace, the marathon will end and the kids will be adults, elbowing through their own lives, forging ahead to bigger and better races, perhaps even influencing children of their own.

And then my friend can slow to a walk, breathe deeply and take in the scenery. Her finish line will be within reach.