Posted on 01/13/2026 1:17:49 PM PST by Diana in Wisconsin
When my daughter turned 1, we gave her a stuffed-lamb toy to try to coax her away from her pacifier. Fortunately, it worked like a charm and Lambchop became a member of the family. Lambchop now joins us during family meals, family vacations, and even family photo shoots. As my daughter has grown, I’ve had to convince her that sometimes Lambchop has to stay in the car while she’s at school or on a playdate so it won’t go missing. While she’s gone and I’m running errands, Lambchop rides shotgun. And when my daughter gets back in the car, she promptly requests Lambchop’s return, often when I’m in the middle of turning the steering wheel.
Seeing Renee Nicole Good’s glove compartment, overflowing with her 6-year-old’s stuffies, shattered me. I imagined her son requesting stuffies from the back seat while she was driving, just like my daughter does. I thought of all three of her children, ages 6, 12, and 15 — how they would get picked up early from school and receive the worst news of their lives. How the hot tears would stream down their faces like lava. And how their mother wouldn’t be there to wipe them away.
Good’s children aren’t the only ones who have had a parent ripped away from them. The reason ICE officer Jonathan Ross was on that street in Minneapolis in the first place: the thousands of parents torn from their children, detained, and deported to countries where they may face the unthinkable.
For anyone with the slightest semblance of a conscience, life feels especially heavy these days. Every morning, I dread the idea of looking at my phone, knowing I’ll be inundated with something terrible — news of the latest air strike, invasion, wildfire, government-sanctioned kidnapping, or all-around incoherent utterance from an elected official. Doomscrolling doesn’t begin to cover it.
As a journalist, I’ve always been entrenched in current events. I’ve watched every horrific video, debate, and press conference you can think of. Because it was my job. But five years ago, I got a new job that made processing the news especially hard for me: I became a parent. Something about motherhood rewired my brain. I read the news differently. Suddenly, every person was someone’s baby. Every child’s cry was familiar. Every attack felt personal and urgent. This was no longer the world I was living in; it became the world I am somehow supposed to raise my children in.
Consuming the news, not simply as a person with a conscience but particularly as a parent, is harrowing. I know I can’t be the only one pouring cereal and playing on the floor with my kids, telling them everything will be all right while simultaneously asking myself if that’s actually true. Mothers are pulling dinner out of the oven, navigating after-school schedules, helping with homework, signing up for summer camp (yes, in January), and smiling through it all while a war rages inside our own brains. We read a horrifying headline one minute and a fairy tale the next.
The day after the 2024 election, I woke my then-3-year-old daughter up for school and searched for the right words when she looked up at me through groggy eyes and asked, “Did Kah-mama win, Mommy?”
Last month, I couldn’t help but cry while wrapping Christmas presents and listening to Nat King Cole’s “A Cradle in Bethlehem.”
A mother tonight is rocking a cradle in Bethlehem.
Is she?
Why is it that my kids get to have a holiday when Palestinian children don’t even get to have a home? And how much longer will my children even have that privilege?
Parenthood is an eternal loop of generations experiencing what so many parents before them went through. And we often make the mistake of discussing our trials as if we’re the first mothers to ever lose sleep or cry over spilled breast milk. Let me be clear: I’m not the first parent to feel this way, and I certainly won’t be the last. As a Black woman, I know my ancestors worried their sons and daughters might be lynched on their walks home from school, that their babies would be ripped from their arms on the auction block. I’m not arrogant enough to believe my experience is unique.
But as a member of a generation that once learned that fierce hope could yield real results, a group of voters that went from “Yes, we can” to “Yes, we did,” a community that believed the good guys eventually prevail, I find myself wondering how to bestow that hope on my children. And while those years weren’t without their own version of cruelties, I’m desperate to live in “precedented times” and growing more aware by the day that my children don’t even know what those days feel like.
I don’t have a solution. I don’t know how to raise a generation of children who feel motivated to build despite the fact that the world is burning around them. But perhaps the best thing for these kids is that they’re being raised by a group of parents who have had to hold heartbreak in one hand and hope in the other. Maybe our emotional whiplash has made us more equipped to raise empathetic humans who are bold and, more important, who are just. What I know for sure is I can’t look away. I used to keep up with current events because it was my job. Today, it still is — but the stakes are much higher. Rather than writing a breaking-news story, I have to stay informed so I can be honest, in age-appropriate ways, with my children about the state of their world and their place in it. And I have to hold on to hope the same way I hold on to Lambchop, protecting it so I can turn it over to my daughter’s reaching hands. Some days I find the balance; many days I do not. But I won’t stop trying.
Becoming a mother made the pain of the world’s suffering feel so much more acute. But maybe that’s the point. Parents are helping to shape the people who will shape the future, and perhaps our efforts to maintain normalcy for our own children will become motivation for our children to create a more normal world.
Good background info. Thanks.
“None of these women had parenting crises when Laken Riley or any of the other dozens of women were raped and murdered by illegal immigrants.”
Or the MURDER of Ashli Babbit or the death by starvation of Terry Schaivo. :(
Those far-left ahos sure are burning up the ink, aren’t they? This bimbo is dead because she never learned how to use situational awareness and that ICE men are not big fans of suicidal lesbians with beards and hairy armpits. She even looks suicidal in this mugshot of the deceased suicidal ditz who didn’t act like an “American Mom.” She acted more like a disturbed American Bison that has been poked all day by a bunch of old gray-haired geezers with dumbness sails like old pirate ships.
Hey Danielle,
Palestinian children do have a place to go. It’s called Jordan. Learn some history.
.
Exactly! These liberal dingbats live in their own little echochambers instead of reality. Scary, rudderless mothering.
Good news, all. The federal govt is indeed considering charges against the “Drive, baby, drive” so-called spouse AND five Minnesota prosecutors have resigned.
Sit your kids down and have them watch Chris Rock’s video “How Not to Get Your Zzz Kicked by The Police”. 😏
The author of this tripe asks this question. The answer is an easy one.
Stay home and raise your children.
Teach them the Constitution and Christianity.
Teach them to have a healthy respect for law enforcement.
Obviously she hasn’t seen the frame-by-frame video from across the street of the incident. It is much clearer than what the media is showing. It shows her backing up, shifting gears, turning the wheels into the ICE agent, and accelerating after being told 4 times to stop and get out of the car. There is no doubt in my mind that she intended and did, in fact, hit the ICE agent.
“I don’t know a solution”.
I have a solution. Find a husband. You need the help.
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