Entry 06: Mom… what’s war?
The question came softly. The answer didn’t.
Setting:
7:00 PM.
Living room floor.
Toys scattered like they’ve just survived an attack.
One kid leaning against my arm, another drawing a tank in purple crayon.
Kid: “Mom… what’s war?”
Characters:
Me: not ready. not qualified. emotionally buffering.
Inner Voice: equal parts hope, grief, and guilt.
Me: “Where did you hear about war?”
Kid: “There was a picture in a book. Also, grownups always talk about it.”
Me: “What kind of picture?”
Kid: “It had fire. And smoke. And people running.”
I pause. Think of everything I could say. Everything I probably shouldn’t.
Me (gently): “Well... war is when countries or groups of people fight each other. With weapons. On purpose. And it hurts a lot of people.”
Kid: “Why do they fight?”
Me: “Sometimes it’s because they want the same land. Or they don’t agree on something big. Or... they forget how to talk to each other.”
Inner Voice: That’s true. And also useless. And also not enough.
Kid: “But why do they fight with fire? Can’t they just talk instead?”
Me: “They try. But sometimes they don’t try hard enough. Or they stop listening. And when people stop listening, they stop seeing each other as human.”
Kid: “That’s dumb.”
Me: “Yeah. It is.”
Inner Voice: Say something about empathy. Say something about peace. Say something that redeems the world.
Me: “War is when people don’t know what to do with big, scary feelings. So they hurt each other instead of talking about them. It’s like they forget that the other side has families too.”
Kid: “Oh, like when my sister bit me and said I wasn’t her brother anymore?”
Me: “Kind of.”
Kid: “Oh. So they’re really bad at feelings.”
Me: “That’s one way to say it.”
We sit there. The crayon tank now has smiley faces on it. He hands me the red crayon.
Kid: “We have to do something about it.”
I look at him. Small hands gripping a red crayon like it could undo a missile. A heart still soft enough to believe that big problems have simple answers.
Me: “What would you do?”
Kid: “I’d build a big machine. Not a war one. A feelings one. Like a feelings detector. So if someone feels mad, it makes them do yoga. Or eat a muffin.”
I try not to laugh. I nod slowly.
Tanks for teddy bears. Missiles for muffins.
And fears for hugs.
Me: “That would change a lot of things.”
Kid: “Obviously.”
Then he hands me the purple crayon.
Kid: “Can you help me draw the feelings machine?”
And just like that, I’m part of the resistance.
Not with protests or policies.
But with crayons, and listening.
And the radical act of raising a child
whose instinct is still softness.
Whose sense of justice looks like muffins and hugs.
Whose innocence reminds me what wisdom really is..