My human family has been extremely blessed in the health department, so my children have not yet experienced the death of a close family member. But in the pet department, it's been a bad year. My parents lost their dog about a year ago when Forrest was just 2, so naturally, we left things at 'Stu doesn't live with Grammy and Grampy anymore...now they have Sid!' No questions were asked. Easy! And my in-laws took the same basic approach when they lost their dog earlier this year, but this time he noticed. So, I decided that when my parents' cat passed away last week, it needed to be addressed before we visited them the following weekend.
Here's how it went down:
Me: Forrest, Mommy needs to talk to you about something really important.
F: --
Me: Forrest, are you paying attention?
F: What Mommy...
Me: Forrest, eyes on Mommy. I'm gonna pause cartoons so we can talk about something important.
***10 Minutes Later After Screaming Fit Subsides***
Me: Forrest, remember how I told you that Bitty got into an accident?
F: Yeah.
Me: Well, I'm really sorry, but she's gone. She's not here anymore. She died.
F: --
Me: Forrest, do you understand what that means?
F: What what means, Mommy?
Me: That she died.
F: Where is she?
Me: She's not with us anymore, she's gone.
F: If she's not here now. Then, where'd she go?
Me: Heaven. She's with God now.
F: Where's heaven?
Me: Well...that's a good question. It's not here exactly. It's a different kind of place. Sort of like... Um.... ... it's up in the clouds.
F: Up in the sky? Or down here on the ground?
Me: Up in the sky.
F: Oh. Okay. We need to get more dogs and cats and bring them to Grammy and Grampy's house!
Me: Uh, ok. Why?
F: Because they need more.
Me: Forrest, do you understand that Grammy and Grampy are sad that Bitty died. I'm sad, too because she was my kitty when I was a little girl and lived with Grammy and Grampy.
F: Then I'm sad, too. And angry. And frustrated. All those emotions. (Proceeds to make faces demonstrating all the various emotions).
Me: It's okay to feel sad. Do you want to say a prayer for Bitty up in heaven.
F: No, I don't think so.
Me: Do you have any other questions?
F: What are we having for dinner?
Good talk.
Bonus Material (just so I can solidify your opinion of me as the Best Parent Ever):
One night before bed Forrest was flipping through Avery's baby book and kept asking if the baby in the picture was him or Avery, so I got out his baby book to show him pictures of himself as a baby. We landed on the delivery room picture of Steve poised with the giant scissors, ready to cut the umbilical cord (is that weird? I feel like it was a Basic Parenting Requirement to have a cut-the-cord picture? please don't tell me that that is not a thing!). You can tell where this is going, right?
F: What is Daddy doing there?
Me: He's cutting your umbilical cord. (Duh! What are you learning in pre-preschool anyway?!)
F: He's cutting me???
Me: Yes, but not you. It's your umbilical cord.
F: What's an um-bee-lick-uh cord?
Me: It's a tube that connected me to you while you were growing in my tummy. That's how you got your air and food when you were in there.
F: Why'd he cut it off???
Me: You didn't need it anymore. When you came out you could breathe on your own and you got your food through your mouth.
F: I don't want Daddy to cut my um-bee-lick-uh cord! He hurts me!
***Crying***
And that folks is how you conduct age-appropriate conversations with your children about big picture topics such as the funiculus umbilicalis and death. Bring on The Talk, I'm ready! Gulp.
(Other sound parenting advice: take two kids under the age of 4 to a Cards game in the nosebleed seats when the sun is setting directly into your faces. Enjoy that lukewarm Budweiser!)
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