The week of the Boston marathon bombing, I had a revelation about motherhood.
I was recently engaged, and although my fiancé and I had decided we would have kids, I was still apprehensive. As a lifelong planner, I was uncomfortable with the idea of embarking on a path where I did not know how exactly things would turn out. What if something went wrong? What if I didn't like being a mother? What if it strained my relationship with my husband?
I could think of innumerable reasons not to become a parent.
The bombing at the marathon could have been another one. No matter how much you try to protect your children, you have no guarantee that they will be safe. This is a terrifying reality to reckon with.
Instead, I had a different reaction. That week, I read essays by mothers about caring for their kids in the aftermath of the explosions, mothers who were trying to figure out what to tell them, mothers who were giving extra hugs and kisses. Had these mothers not had children, they wouldn't have to worry about how to talk about terrorism, they wouldn't have to face the realization that taking your kid to an annual celebratory event could end in tragedy. But they also wouldn't have their kids.
The bombing was a reminder that there are no guarantees in life, period. Not having kids was not the answer to my desire to know what's coming. And if I shied away from this experience out of fear, I would never have what those moms holding their kids close had.
I didn't know then what exactly that was. I didn't know about the joy of seeing your child run around the aquarium yelling, "Fishy! Fishy!" Or the comfort of feeling his weight in your lap when you read him a book. Or the excitement of hearing him attempt to pronounce his name. Or the heartbreak of trying to stop his tears even when he's only crying because he's overtired but refusing to nap.
I didn't know the specifics but even as I felt bad for the moms who had to explain the attack while dealing with their own fears, I felt a tinge of envy too. Maybe I wanted what they had. Maybe all the fear and uncertainty would be worth it.
I reflected on those feelings this morning, as I read about 8-year-old Saffie Rose Roussos, who was one of at least 22 victims in the attack at last night's Ariana Grande concert. My thoughts are with the families of the victims, who I hope find comfort even as that wish seems futile in the context of this nightmare. There's no way to frame this news as anything but awful. It's a reminder, once again, that there is only so much we can do to shield our children from danger and sometimes that's not enough.
Today, I'm seeing some of the expected reaction: How do you bring children into this crazy world?
For some, perhaps the answer is you don't. For me, I'm glad it wasn't.
I'm now the mother of an 18-month-old boy whom I will never be able to fully protect. He is the reason I cried on the subway this morning but he is also the source of so much of my laughter. And I'd rather accept the vulnerability that comes with motherhood than live my life without him.
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Lori Fradkin is the executive editor of Cosmopolitan.com. She worked previously at the Huffington Post, AOL, and New York Magazine. She lives in New York with her husband, sons, and dog.
