Wee One (WO) has been talking about Jesus and God more, and it’s putting a lump in my throat. It’s a good thing, in my mind, because I wanted to teach her about them, and she’s learning.
When she and I hear emergency sirens, I always comment, “Ooh. Someone’s having a bad day. We should say a prayer for them” (Thanks, parochial school.)
The other day, she heard a siren and commented that someone was having a bad day. I agreed, and she said, “Mommy, tell God.” (LOL)
Saturday night, we were talking about people who love her: Daddy, Mommy, Nana, Mimi, Grandpa and then Papa in heaven. She said, Papa died. Jesus is taking care of him. Cohiba and I both had a tear in our eye.
Sunday she heard another siren and told me to tell God. I said, “You know you can talk to God, too.” At first she told me I should do it, then she said something like, ‘Dear God, someone is having a bad day and I wanted to tell you.’ That was her prayer. It was perfect. It was adorable.
But Sunday night I had a hard time. As we were doing her bedtime routine tonight, she was talking again about Papa being in heaven, and said, Papa has got new bones? (She’s been talking about bones a lot lately. Halloween skeletons, probably.) She said, ‘I can’t wait to go and see him and he will play with me.’
In her mind, that makes sense. He was still pretty sick during the year she had with him. She could play with him, but if he has new bones, they can play a lot more. But this was the point I almost lost it. Her sweet little voice was so hopeful and confident, the faith of a child, and all I could think of was that would mean she was dead, that I would be gone, that I would be away from her. And that was hard.