For Heaven's Sake

Where are all the useful parenting articles, like "How to Keep a Conversation about Community Helpers from Turning into a Lesson on Death"? I'm sure it would start off with sage advice like, "If your 5-year-old asks about dead relatives, just say they are in heaven and quickly change the subject." An article like that would have saved me a trip to the cemetery last week.

The dinner discussion started out on a light note, talking about our relatives who had "community helper" roles, a theme our son's kindergarten class had discussed that day. And then this happened:

Me: "Daddy's grandpa was a mailman."
Noah thought quietly before saying: "Where is he?"
Me: "He died a while ago."
Noah: "What does it mean to die?"

I kept the response as light as possible, making sure to emphasize that most people are really old when they die.

Noah thought quietly again before saying: "Good thing I'm only 5. Mommy, you're 34!"

Thanks kid.

The conversation re-surfaced at breakfast the next morning.

Noah: "When we die, people will just walk over our bodies here?"

Ewww.

Me: "No. You don't just leave people on the floor or the ground."
Noah: "Why not?"

I should note that I HAD NOT had a full cup of coffee at this point.

Me: "Well, people start to smell after they die."

What??? As if we'd leave people hanging around post-mortem if they were still shower-fresh. As I realized the absurdity of what I'd said, Noah came back with "So Daddy's grandpa kinda smells?"

Me: "No! One of two things happen when someone dies." I launched into a somewhat brief, child-friendly description of embalming, coffins, cemeteries, and burials. Luckily, caffeine kicked in and stopped me from even mentioning cremation. I asked him if he knew what a cemetery was. He said no, so I told him that we could go visit one to see what a nice place it is to remember people who have died.

On the way to school, I reminded him that we were stopping at the library that afternoon. "No," he said, "We're going to see dead people, remember?"

After school, he piped up from the back of the car. "Do they fold you so you fit?" I played dumb. "Fit?" "Yeah, in the box, after you die." "Oh no, they don't have to. It's like a big bed, just inside this really nice box."

Then he wanted to know if he would get a new mommy if I died. "Because I won't know how to do anything," he added. Oh, so someone is just worried about who's gonna pack his lunch and make his dinner. I told him that I would be old when I died, and I was thankful he couldn't see me look for wood to knock on.