…it happens in their own time. Whether we’re talking about learning something new or working out something emotional, it happens in it’s own time. Whether we’re talking about ourselves as adults, or our children, it happens in it’s own time.
There are things we can do to promote the learning or working out of things. And these things we “do” are not often what we think. These things we do often even feel like nothing, or not enough, or insufficient. And these things we “do” may leave us feeling helpless or hopeless if we don’t understand why we’re doing them.
This post is coming from a place that’s erupted after a series of events, so since I don’t know where to start, I’ll start with the events themselves.
My daughter is 8, and in her 8 years she’s been to a lot of funerals, mostly relatives; I actually can’t count them all for sure, but she’s probably been to at least 8. I find it interesting that she’s been to so many, since she’s such an existential being. She started talking about death around her 2nd birthday. And it’s been quite an experience of learning and working through my own emotions while learning how to respond to her authentically and in developmentally appropriate ways. As you can imagine, I want to “fix” the matter of death for her, ease the idea that one day every single one of us dies.
When she was 2 years old she talked about how everyone and everything dies for at least a year.
…when she was 3 years old she began asking with a trembling lip, “are you going to die?”
…and then at 4 years old she asked with a warbly voice, “am I going to die?”
At age 2 I sat and listened to her. I waited and watched and listened, trusting that she would ask for more information when she was developmentally ready to take in more information. This is what it means to respond in developmentally appropriate ways: you wait, you watch, you listen to what it is you’re children are saying and doing and asking.
At ages 3 and 4 I answered her questions, “you are worried that one day I am going to die because you know everything has a beginning and an end” and “you are worried that one day you are going to die because you know everything has a beginning and an end.” And we cried together during these conversations…many times.
Many people have asked, “doesn’t it scare her to see you cry about death?” My answer is long and short, grounded and wavering; it’s all these things because these are difficult conversations and I’m following my child’s lead in emotionally connected and developmentally aware ways, “Yes and no. Yes, I imagine it scares her to see that death is real enough to make me cry when I think about leaving her. And no, my crying with her about our inevitable separation is an authentic experience we share. Crying together is acknowledging our love for each other. It is a part of the inevitable grief process that will come…in it’s own time.”
We’ve read a lot of lovely books together to help us with our conversations, to help us discover language that feels right for us, and to ease the stress of coming up with our words (see bottom for book list). But this is just a part of the story, which I’m sharing…in my own time.
Recently we started reading the Harry Potter book series (and watching the movies in between). It’s been a lovely ritual for our family: we eat and clear the dishes, then my daughter fills the tea pot and readies the couch while my partner and I clean up the kitchen. I love this evening ritual for lots of reasons, but mostly because it’s easy, it reconnects us as a family after a long day, it gives us something to look forward to each evening, and it eases us into the transition of sleep. But again, this is only a part of the story I’m telling…in my own time.
If you’re familiar with the Harry Potter books, you know about the death that occurs in book 4 (if not…heads up). I was very conscientious about timing the reading of that part of the book; I wanted to be sure I had time to be present, to observe and to listen to my daughter. I wanted her to have the time and space to talk about how this part of the book affected her…in her own time.
It’s been over a month, and we are now halfway through book 5. She hasn’t yet brought up the subject of death or dying.
A few weeks ago she started having nightmares with “all the mamas” – apparently I have quite a few personas, as I’m sure you do too. There is “fun mama” and “tired mama,” “happy mama” and “angry mama, ” there’s even a “rebel mama” (I’m not gonna lie, I really like her). Nevertheless, all of these personas are a part of who I am, and my daughter is integrating them in her dreams, and talking to me about them…in her own time.
Right now we’re having a mini-vacation in Charleston, SC. It’s beautiful and windy and chilly. We go to the water to play, run back inside to wash off the sand and warm up, then go back out and come back in…again and again, in our own time.
Today we got in a giant tub to warm up and chat and have lemonade in fancy wine glasses. We turned on the jets and clinked our glasses, and my daughter said, “mama, if I were in Hagrid’s class I would be able to see Thestrals too, because I’ve seen death.” I sipped my lemonade and looked at her, nodding and thinking, “tell me more.” And I breathed and I listened and I waited. Waited for her to continue…in her own time.
Here’s the thing, as a mom, I want to have a lot of conversations. Proactive conversations to prepare her for all that is to come in life…or even in the day ahead. I want to have proactive conversations when I want to have them because something is on my mind. Some worry or concern that I’m sure she needs to prepare for. But I have an adult mind, with adult maturity and adult experiences and adult points of view. I have adult perspectives skewed by my own worries; propelling me to fix things and prepare for things NOW. In MY time. But I am not my daughter, and my daughter is not me. She is amazing and capable and knows so much about so many topics. And while I want to fix things, to ease her burdens and to prepare her for what (may) come, I know that most of the time I have to bide my time, I have to bite my lip, I have to breathe into the discomfort of waiting for her to ease into a conversation…in her own time.
Because in her own time she is ready.
In her own time she is prepared.
In her own time she can learn.
In her own time she is safe.
She has an inner knowing that she can access…in her own time.
And I can only do my best to trust and to wait and to be. I can only do my best to hold the space for her so that she knows she can come to me and be heard, not fixed, in her own time.
My favorite 2 children’s books on death are Lifetimes by Bryan Mellonie and Robert Ingpen and What Comes After A Thousand by Annette Bley, other people really like The Fall of Freddy the Leaf by Leo Buscaglia and When Dinosaurs Die by Krasny Brown and Mark Brown – I suggest getting them all and reading through them yourself first to get used to the language, and then sharing them with your kiddos to see what resonates with them.
