By 
It was the first thing I saw when I logged onto Facebook this morning, looking for who knows what kind of solace. My friend's status, a single word: "Nausea."
She, like me, is the mother of a toddler. She, like so many of us, woke up today literally sick to her stomach about how to move through a day in which the chyron on the TV screen says "Donald Trump Elected President"—all casual, same font as ever, like it's just a normal news story. I don't know what I was expecting—a skull emoji, maybe?
When it comes to what parents of Trump opponents are feeling today, no one can match Van Jones's heartfelt summation, which I saw people posting again and again on social media before Hillary Clinton even conceded last night. (Jesus Christ, did I really just write the words "Hillary Clinton conceded?" It's still not real.)
"You tell your kids, don't be a bully," Jones said softly as the rest of the CNN panel blinked at him. "You tell your kids, don't be a bigot… you have people putting children to bed tonight, and they're afraid of breakfast."
I was definitely afraid of breakfast. My two-year-old was asleep; earlier that day, we had voted together. I was so proud of him for standing in line like a good boy; I let him push the button. In my head, I was already telling an older version of him the story of us sharing this historic moment. Before he went to bed, I taught him to say "Madam President." This morning, I'm glad he's not quite old enough to follow up and ask what happened. It is the smallest thing I am mourning today: that selfish feeling that I was cheated out of history, that I wanted me and my little kid and our buttons to be part of this story of the first female president.
Because there are far bigger issues afoot now. Really, as a parent, what do you do today? I want to buy into the evolved mindset, the various "no leaving America" and "work to do" and "fight for love" sentiments. But I'm still angry. I'm not ready to come together. I'm so angry to know, unequivocally, that half the people in this country signed off on bigotry and cruelty last night, and that there is no way to prevent my children from interacting with those people as they grow up here. When you're staring down the barrel of your kids' formative years coinciding with a Trump presidency, it's hard not to flip half your Facebook friends the finger and move out of the country. Let fighting for love be somebody else's problem. I've had real estate listings for a cute Canadian seaside town bookmarked since the primaries. I can easily envision my boys running around on the grassy plains. Option one is sticking around to battle Trump vibes for the next four or eight years. Option two is your children growing up safe and sympathetic within view of a Canadian lighthouse. It seems an easy choice.
But it's not my children I'll stay for. I'm raising two little white men in the making; outside of the possibility that Trump will temper-tantrum us into nuclear war, my fears for them concern the shaping of their minds and souls. I am not the parent of a daughter, lying awake wondering how to introduce her to a president I wouldn't trust alone in a room with her. I am not a parent of Latino children, lying awake wondering whether my kids will show up to school tomorrow and find it scrawled with, "BUILD THE WALL HIGHER." I am not a parent of Muslim children, lying awake wondering whether some kid will innocently ask my kid one day what he's doing here—isn't there a ban? I am not a parent of black children, lying awake wondering whether a child of mine will someday be gunned down by a person who has hungrily internalized Trump's veiled call to action: "Law and order! Law and order!"
No, I am the parent of two white children. And while I always would have made tolerance a priority, now it is urgent. If I fail them in every other way, I will make sure they know their place in this conversation. It is a place of privilege. It is a place of watchfulness. It will be their responsibility to speak up for the people president-elect Trump speaks down to. Love has its own law and order, too. I intend my children to be part of it.
That means, I realize, that they may grow up with a more militant mother than they would have if, say, Mitt Romney was displacing Barack Obama in January. I will not politely laugh political differences off in the car pickup line. I will embarrass parents and children alike if they make racist jokes in front of my kids. If you voted for Trump, be warned: you signed up for this.
When I was a child myself, reading about some atrocity of human hate or apathy, I would think to myself, "Oh no, not me. I'd never be like that, and I'd never let my children be like that. I'd make them different."
Turns out, I'm going to get my chance.
