“Do zombies poop their pants, Mom?”
Since zombies aren’t functioning at the highest level, I assume they aren’t too focused on making it to the toilet on time. When I told my boys that yes, I think zombies do poop their pants, they all started laughing hysterically. I think it was a crowd pleaser. The best and most gross answer.
Then, there are the other times. The moments when my kids ask questions that catch me completely off guard. The kind of questions that hurt to answer. The ones that I try to stay even-keeled when answering, but eventually the dam of tears releases, typically after I look at my three sleeping boys.
Questions like, “Mommy, how will we find you and Daddy in Heaven?” or “Who will die first, you or Daddy?” I may not know the answer, but I know that they are seeking, searching, and trying to figure out how life and death work. It’s a natural part of being a child and growing up. My boys and I have buried fish, a falcon, worms, roly pollys and so on. We’ve written letters on paper airplanes to God and had funerals for animals. And we talk rather frequently about our dog, Yoda, who died and is running around crazy in Heaven, we hope.
My husband and I have tried to teach our kids about life and living and also about death. And dying. My boys understand that every creature is born. And that every creature dies. Death is universal. In the past six months, we have had two grandparents die in our family, great grandparents for my children. They each chose very different funerals. One chose an open casket funeral. And one chose cremation. We have had many difficult conversations with our kids. Death conversations. Preparing for funeral conversations. And conversations also about Heaven.
I didn’t drop my boys off on the first day of preschool or kindergarten before preparing them. We visited their classroom, met their teacher, and we talked to them about going to school. I want to try my best to help ready my children for experiencing something new. I don’t want them to fear the unknown. Most importantly, I want my kids to trust me. To know that they can come to me for the truth. Especially when it’s hard. Even when my best and most honest answer is, “I don’t know.” I want my husband and I to be the ones that gently answer their real life questions, especially about death. We are the experts on our kids’ hearts and souls.
Most adults don’t like to talk about death. We don’t like to say the word, “died.” We like to change the subject too soon or say things like “he’s sleeping, “she passed away, ” she flew to Heaven,” or my least favorite, “God took him.” All of these sayings can be challenging for a child to understand and can promote a child to fear sleep and God. Most adults have good intentions, but euphemisms can be confusing for kids.
Our deepest conversations with our boys generally happen in our van while we’re driving. My kids are buckled in. Their constant physical energy is momentarily restrained. Earlier this spring, we drove 700 miles to Gammie’s funeral, a great grandma to my boys. She chose to have an open casket viewing for family. I explained a little about the funeral home, the church and the burial. I said that people may be sad or crying. Or they also may smile and laugh talking about the happy stories and memories. I explained that new people, friends of Gammie’s, may want to meet them and say “hi.”
I helped prepare my boys for what a dead body would look like, feel like, etc. I used concrete language. “She won’t be alive. She won’t be breathing, moving, talking, or laughing. Her heart won’t be beating anymore.” I gave them the choice of walking up to see their great grandma and touching her dead body or choosing not to. My boys painted and drew their favorite pictures to put by Gammie’s casket. I described to them what her body would look and feel like. “Her eyes will be closed. She will be laying in a big pretty wooden box. There will be a lot of flowers.” I believe children at funerals help remind us to value and appreciate life and the innocence of youth. They’re the living flowers at a funeral.
When we arrived at the funeral home, I asked my boys if they would like to see Gammie’s body. They all chose to walk up and see her in the casket. I explained that they could touch her or that they could just look at her. She would feel cold, and she would not be moving. I talked again about her spirit, or soul, the part of her that made her who she was, that made her laugh, cry and love. Her soul would be gone to Heaven. One of my boys gently, well, rather strongly in his six-year-old body, placed his hand inside the casket and held her shoulder. Then, he asked to touch her hands. It was a beautiful, peaceful moment. Witnessing his tiny six-year-old hands briefly resting on his great grandmother’s. One last time.
Then, he was quickly off to play, color and try to not touch his brothers. If you ask my boys about Gammie’s funeral, months later, they will talk about “Gammie in the box,” the American flag and the hotel pool. They don’t have scary memories. They were prepared for, yet not forced to participate in any part of the funeral that they chose not to. But they wanted to be a part of it all. They were confident that their dad and I would be there next to them.
If I’m honest, most of the time I would rather answer their poop-related, super hero or zombie questions. I love their imaginations. But there’s also a really special place in my heart for their tough, real-life questions. My hope is that my best, most truthful answers will help them grow, without fear, and fully appreciate and experience all the beauty that life offers.
