Bam-bam-bam! “I’m gonna kill you,” he declared, aiming a rifle at my face. Something in me flipped. I strode over, snapped the rifle in two and flung the amputated parts to the ground in disgust.

My son burst in to tears. The eve of his fourth birthday coincided with the one week anniversary of the assassinations at Charlie Hebdo magazine. I sank to my knees and drew Maxim into my arms, murmuring my apologies. Normally I would have praised my son for his creativity. He had fashioned the gun from Lego.

My three other children all looked on in shock. I patted the floor and asked my two girls to sit with me and their baby brother, and Maxim, who I had pulled into my lap. I took the remnants of the offending weapon and pulled it to pieces, strewing the sitting room floor with blocks.

I began to count. I stopped at the number twelve. Then I took another piece and counted to one. I paused before picking up some more Lego pieces and counting to four. Then I began counting all over again. This time the total was 17. My eldest daughter, who is seven, looked up from the floor and stared at me, her rosebud lips parted in recognition. Each Lego piece represented an individual who lost their life that week.

The terrorist acts that held the world aghast happened right on our doorstep in Paris. My daughter takes a swimming class just metres from Charlie Hebdo’s offices every Monday. My dear (Jewish) friend Olivia and her family live a stone’s throw from Montrouge, where policewoman Clarissa Jean-Philippe was gunned down. Three of my four children came into the world at a maternity hospital situated spitting distance from the kosher supermarket where four others lost their lives.

Collecting my children from school on the day of the Charlie Hebdo attack, I had no choice but to skirt a police cordon of red and white tape. Sirens of all kinds rang out, (and continued to do so, day and night, for two entire days). It was surreal, like stepping onto a film set. Officers wore riot gear and brandished machine guns. No wonder my son had rifles in his sightline.

I was shaken but couldn’t show it. That my cool and calm exterior of parental reassurance was a sham became apparent when minutes later in the grocery store, my trembling hands sent a dozen eggs flying through the air.

That Sunday, about 1.5 million people paraded past my home, chanting and singing. Our sitting room windows were flung open wide to the chill January air, and even my two-year -old daughter had her fist raised to the sky like a genuine Frenchie, chanting “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie”.

Monday and Tuesday following the unity march were difficult days here in Paris. Despite prime minister Manuel Valls' urging "not to close in upon yourselves", faces were glum, mouths were drawn down and shoulders hunched high in collars upturned against the cold. The city and its inhabitants was reeling from the countercoup of the merciless blow al-Qaeda struck on France.

At the pharmacy last Wednesday, a simple greeting of “Ca va?” (How are you?) to our favourite pharmacist brought forth a deluge of emotion. He, like so many of the inhabitants in the 11th Arrondissement, is a Jew. He shook his head and said he knew the family of one of the victims killed in the supermarket at Porte de Vincennes.

Watching the news the night before I had been brought to tears by coverage of the state funeral given to all four "supermarket victims". The wife of deceased 40-something father of three, Philippe Braham, took to the podium and prayed aloud to her husband. Through a crackly microphone she implored him to "protèges-moi" (protect me), and to watch over their children.

I was stabbed by grief, and sobbed. My four children were tucked up in bed, sleeping. It could have been my child, my husband, my friend, I reflected.

With a faltering voice, our pharmacist relayed how a customer had described her shock upon discovering a policeman lying in a pool of blood on the pavement of Boulevard Richard Lenoir while out walking the two children she cares for.

The policeman looked up from the pavement, and shouted “Barrez-vous!” (Get out of here!). Seconds later shots rang out. One of the Kouachi brothers had approached from behind and executed the officer, point blank. I hope the two children sitting in the buggy are too young to remember.

That horrific scene played out on a stretch along which I have walked pushing a buggy every Wednesday for the past four years, accompanying my daughter to singing class with her younger siblings in tow. It was the first time I thought “That could have been me”.

Our pharmacist, normally so discreet, confided that sales of sleeping pills have gone through the roof. Evidently the poor man has been serving as a sounding board or counsellor of sorts for the entire quartier since the assassinations at Charlie Hebdo. In that moment I was his.

I was grateful for the support of my baby’s buggy as I exited the pharmacy and crossed the street onto Boulevard Richard Lenoir, just metres from the scene of the (first) crime. A catch clawed at my throat and tears teetered behind my eyeballs.

The heinous events that took place in Paris have turned people topsy turvy. I don’t quite know what to tell my children, but have been attempting to tackle tough topics such as religion and morality. We have been discussing the difference between right and wrong.

Last Sunday, my husband and I took our family to play on Place de la Republique, as we often do. Going about our weekend as we normally would was for us, a small but important act of defiance. While my eldest son kicked a football with his father, my two daughters whizzed about the vintage merry-go-round on their scooters. As evening gathered in, we noticed candles scattered at the foot of the fountain, flickering brightly in the descending dusk.

A statue of Marianne reigns over Place de la Republique, symbolising the triumph of the French Republic. Marianne’s pedestal had become a shrine, strewn with flowers, pencils, messages and drawings.

I have in the past endured grief. I have lost a grandparent, a parent, and twice lamented the loss of an unborn child through miscarriage. The desolation and loneliness I felt on each occasion was immense, almost overwhelming. These past few weeks, I found comfort in collective mourning. Sadness can be softened, a little, by a strong show of solidarity.

After the unity march, I Vibered to my best friend in the US. “Just imagine,” I wrote, “Last Sunday the equivalent of the population of Ireland took to the streets of France wielding pencils in protest against wickedness. The population of my native Dublin shuffled past my Paris sitting room, clamouring for freedom of speech.”

Grief caused by kalashnikovs has solicited solidarity beyond borders. What has been nicknamed “The Survivor’s Issue” of Charlie Hebdo has been snapped up like hot croissants at newsstands around the world. Digesting this evidence, I cling to my obstinate optimism - the best weapon in my arsenal.

Yvette Dolan-Collins grew up in Dublin but has lived in the UK, the US, Italy and France. She has been living in Paris for six years with her husband and four children aged 7, 3, 2 and 6 months.