Thursday, May 18, 2006
On Death and Dying
According to the experts, children become aware of death sometime during their fourth year. So I was not yet prepared when Max first queried me about death last summer. He found a lifeless butterfly in the backyard and brought it to me, cradling it carefully in his small hands.
"This butterfly is old," he announced somberly.
I wasn't entirely sure what he was thinkng, since we had never discussed the subject of death, so I merely confirmed his prouncement. He carried on as if nothing particularly significant had transpired.
A couple of hours later, after we'd come inside, his thoughts flitted back to the butterfly.
"Mommy, why do butterflies die?"
And so began Max's journey to understand death, to the extent any of us really can.
As best I can tell from Max and his teachers and fellow moms, the topic of death and dying looms large on the preschool playground. Being killed by the T-Rex during a game of "king of the dinosaurs," discussing whose parents or grandparents may have died (or not), playing dead under the monkey bars--such are the terms with which four-year olds grapple with one of life's ultimate mysteries.
Occasionally, Max broaches the subject with me, never failing to catch me just a little off guard.
"If you died, who would be my mommy?"
Max flung this question my way as I was getting the kids ready for bed last night. I tried to suppress my own terror at the idea and assumed the most matter-of-fact tone I could muster.
"Well, Max, if I died, you wouldn't have a mommy."
(Okay, in hindsight, I might have crafted a more sensitive answer, one that offered him more comfort, but you don't always have time to edit the perfect response.)
Max appeared to be soaking in this revelation as I braced myself for his distress. He paused for another moment. Then his face exploded with unexpected exuberance.
"I know!," Max nearly shouted, unable to contain his glee. "If you died, then BABEE could be my mommy!"
I guess I don't need to worry about that contingency any more.
"This butterfly is old," he announced somberly.
I wasn't entirely sure what he was thinkng, since we had never discussed the subject of death, so I merely confirmed his prouncement. He carried on as if nothing particularly significant had transpired.
A couple of hours later, after we'd come inside, his thoughts flitted back to the butterfly.
"Mommy, why do butterflies die?"
And so began Max's journey to understand death, to the extent any of us really can.
As best I can tell from Max and his teachers and fellow moms, the topic of death and dying looms large on the preschool playground. Being killed by the T-Rex during a game of "king of the dinosaurs," discussing whose parents or grandparents may have died (or not), playing dead under the monkey bars--such are the terms with which four-year olds grapple with one of life's ultimate mysteries.
Occasionally, Max broaches the subject with me, never failing to catch me just a little off guard.
"If you died, who would be my mommy?"
Max flung this question my way as I was getting the kids ready for bed last night. I tried to suppress my own terror at the idea and assumed the most matter-of-fact tone I could muster.
"Well, Max, if I died, you wouldn't have a mommy."
(Okay, in hindsight, I might have crafted a more sensitive answer, one that offered him more comfort, but you don't always have time to edit the perfect response.)
Max appeared to be soaking in this revelation as I braced myself for his distress. He paused for another moment. Then his face exploded with unexpected exuberance.
"I know!," Max nearly shouted, unable to contain his glee. "If you died, then BABEE could be my mommy!"
I guess I don't need to worry about that contingency any more.
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