We had friends over this morning for a water table and outdoor flour paint playdate. My friend has a daughter Claire's age and her second daughter passed away nearly three weeks ago, an hour after she was born premature. We were on the deck and the kids were playing away.
There was a conversation about friends who continued to be pregnant at a similar gestation after our children died and how it's still hard seeing them, and for me, seeing their living child growing and learning. I said something along the lines of "When Andrew died..." because that's what happened and that's often the segway into a story about emotions and grief.
A minute or so later, Benjamin turns from what he was playing with and said, "Did Andrew die, Mommy?"
"Yes, Benjamin, Andrew died."
A couple hours later, Elliot came home for lunch with us (rare treat!). About 10 minutes into our casual lunch and lots of cuddles, Benjamin told Elliot, "Andrew died." It was totally out of the blue, but it's true and Benjamin now knows it.
We hadn't withheld this information before. I'm sure we've explained to him that he died, but we didn't explain what dying actually means, because that's too abstract for a child so young who hasn't personally experienced it with a close family member. He knows he has a brother and that his brother was born before him. He sees his pictures in our home regularly and even picked up his ashes the other day (cue the anxiety). He knows that he is in heaven, but what does that even mean for a child of three-and-a-half years old?
Well. He said it. I wonder what that really means to him and I wonder when more questions will come. Regardless, I'm proud to be a mom who shares love and heartbreak with her kids. After all, it's because of love that heartbreak exists and that itself is beautiful.
Clear Eyes, Full Heart
3 days ago