Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Potties in heaven

Fielding some tough questions this week from The Bug.  It appears we're back on the ol' death & heaven subject.  I'm thrilled about that, you know, given my squeamishness regarding the very idea of it.

Last week, she wanted to know why the flags weren't all the way up on the flag poles.  I explained that it's called "half-staff," and it's because we, as Americans, are very sad about something that happened.  "What happened?"  (Yeah, like I didn't see that coming.)  I thought about it for a minute.

"A very mean man went into a crowd of people in Arizona, and he shot them with a gun."
"Are the people okay?"
"No, sweetie.  Some of them are hurt really bad, and some died and went to heaven.  But you know what?  The police got the mean man, and they took away his gun, and they locked him up in jail so he can't hurt anyone else."

As I'm telling her this, a feeling of dread washed over me because I realized I'm not able to always protect her.  I'm not able to protect any of us.  My heart broke, again, for Christina Taylor Green's parents.  In today's world, anything can happen.  Anything.  That's scary for me, a supposed grown-up, so I can't imagine how frightening it must be for a five-year-old.  I did the best I could to explain that the police help us stay safe, and that Mommy and Daddy will always try to keep her safe.

She had a lot of questions about the jail.  Where is it, how big is it, how does the mean man get his food.  Where is the gun.  That sort of thing.  I answered honestly, and tried hard to reinforce that she should feel safe.  When really, in my head, I'm screaming that none of us are safe, and that we never know what could happen.

She also recently asked, "Mommy, where will I stay if you and Daddy die?"  Oh, jeez.  So we talked about that, and I told her I wasn't planning on going anywhere, and she said okay.  And then a small voice from the backseat of the car (we always seem to have these convos in the car) said, "I will miss you."  I almost drove off the road.

Last night, as I tucked her into bed, she wanted to know how I would recognize her, and how she would recognize me, if we were in heaven with all the other people who go to heaven.  "What if there's another mommy there, who looks like you, and has the same shirt as you, and she knows my name, and it's not you?"  I climbed into bed with her, knowing this wasn't a short conversation.  We talked about it, and even though I reassured her she would know me, and I would know her, that wasn't cutting it in her book.  So we made a deal. In heaven, I will call her by a special name that only I call her, and that way she would know it's really me.  She was satisfied with that.  I also told her that no matter what, for ever and ever, I will always be her mommy.  Which, to be honest, also made me feel better.

This morning, she wanted to know if the mean man from Arizona will be in heaven.  No, he won't be.  He'll go to a place where all the other mean people go.  And it for sure isn't heaven.  I was just starting to worry that her questions are going way beyond the typical pre-schooler ideas, when she was completely, wholly, five years old again: "Mommy?  How do we go to the bathroom in heaven?  Are there potties in heaven?"

I said yes, there are potties in heaven, but are there, really?  Do our heavenly bodies, our spirits, require, ahem, facilities? Methinks I went with the simple answer, and the easiest for her to understand.

It's all a bit overwhelming at times, fielding these questions and trying to answer them in ways that are accurate (at least, as accurate as I know) and reassuring at the same time.  Especially when just thinking about it all gives me the heebie-jeebies.

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