Still waters run deep

So, if you know me or if you've been following me here for a while, you'll remember a tragedy that struck on 18 July 2010. You'll also remember how my precious boy processed it all at the time.  And there I was, thinking it was all done and dusted and dealt with. After all, Daniel had just turned five when it all happened, and he seemed to have sorted it all out for himself. I didn't think the reality of it all was still a part of his memory. Seems I was wrong. 


My boys have both been Star Wars obsessed of late. We haven't let them watch Episode 3 yet, what with Anakin trawling through the fires of hell to become Darth Vader and all, but we've let them watch the other episodes. This evening, I was sitting doing his reading homework with him, and all of a sudden, he started sobbing. 


I asked what was wrong. " Yoda died!" he cried out, sobbing. "He was sick and he died and I loved him so much!" Cue explanation that Yoda is just part of a story, along with a deeper understanding that this clearly is his mother's child - I also cry in movies. Even when there's really nothing to cry about. But this isn't about me. 


I also explained, ever so gently, that we all try to live as long as we can, but we all have to die sometime. I explained that even though my dad died before Daniel was born, I still carry him in my heart, and I think of him every day. Cue more tears. "I think of Rogan every day, Mom. And I still miss him so much." 


Sjoe. How to deal with that one - when I thought it was all so sorted, and when I, the grownup, had so much difficulty working through it at the time. So, we spoke again about how Rogan and Milla and Monica are still in our hearts, and we think of them every day. We spoke about how Grandpa was sick and in pain, and how even though we miss him every single day, we know that he is much more comfortable where he is now. And we spoke about how Yoda must surely have been tired after fighting the Dark Side of the Force for more than 900 years, and he probably really needed a rest. And that how it's ok to talk about it when we feel sad, and that it's ok to miss the people that aren't with us any more. 


These little people grow up so quickly, and see and feel much more than we realise. I did what I could - I listened, tried to comfort him, tried to support him. 


And then I bought him a Magnum, because chocolate and ice cream go a long way towards fixing what's wrong. And it was right after that when I realised that parenting experts and dietitians would castigate me for introducing comfort eating at such a young age. 


But you know what? I don't care. My boy was sad, we spoke about it all properly, and we needed to get past the crying. Broccoli and magic mince wasn't doing the job that I know ice cream would. 

A child's guide to dealing with death

 You know when you become a mom that there are going to be times when you have to deal with the really difficult stuff with your child – the stuff of life, and of death – because both of these can be really hard, and both of these are inevitable.

It came sooner than I thought it would though, when three people that were part of our lives died in a fire. How to tell my big boy that the friend whose house he and his brother spent the afternoon with three days before, the boy he had shared a birthday party with the previous month, had lost his life in the bedroom that they were playing in, and that the boy’s mom and his baby sister had perished too?

I did what any chicken mom does. I delayed the inevitable, and called in an expert to tell the difficult tale. I dodged the question when my son saw the picture of the inferno on the front page of The Star, and asked whose house had burned down, holding off the terrible answer until someone else could give it, because I was too scared and too broken to do it myself.

The psychologist was amazing with Daniel and his friends at school. She asked about their friend, their favourite games with him, and what he liked the most. She then gently explained that he, his sister and his mother had been in an accident, but that they were safe now, and happy, and that they couldn’t be hurt any more. She explained that they weren’t coming back ever again, but that we could hold them all in our hearts.

Daniel was solemn, but calm, and only cried when I did. We wrote a message to his friend and his sister on helium balloons, and released them with the other children.

When my mom drove past the house later that week, not realizing where it was, he saw the burnt out shell and went quiet. “It was my friend’s house that burned down, wasn’t it, Nana?” he asked. “Yes, my boy,” she said, bracing herself. “It’s ok Nana. He’s safe now, he’s in heaven,” said my amazing boy.

I realized in this that the simplicity of his approach is what is helping him deal with the loss. He doesn’t know the details – although one day I’m sure he’ll figure it out. I’ve promised myself that I’m not going to delegate that explanation, one day when it happens. In being unaware of the details, he really is dealing with the simple facts. There was an accident. They are not here any more. They are safe. They cannot be hurt again. No more information required, really.

He’s not said much about it since, although every now and then he’ll mention a favourite game he played with his friend, or he’ll see something similar to a toy that he played with at his friend’s home, but he’s never sad or tearful.

Last week, he was all about tattoos, as some of the other children had some stick-on transfer tattoos. I hate them, but eventually gave in and got a pack of 35 (yes, 35!!!) tattoos for him and his brother to share. He wanted one on his chest, and just as I magically revealed the circular tattoo, he asked if that was near where his heart was.

“Yes, my boy,” I said.

“Cool. Then my friend can see it too. He’s in my heart, you see.”

 I first published this piece on JoziKids.