Driving to Heaven

"Mommy, where's Kayla?"

Kayla was our beloved dog who passed away last summer after a long life of seventeen years, the last couple spent in our laundry room as a tired, elderly relative seeking asylum from two kids under two.

And so it began, the debate between truth and white lies in explaining death to my toddler. I explained that Kayla was in dog heaven, that she was happy.

"Who drives her there?"

I was flummoxed. "She, um, she runs there. No one drives her. She's ah...always there."

"What does she eat there?"

Ah, this one was easier. "Lots of yummy things like dog biscuits and ice cream and pancakes...."

"And lollipops?"

Yes, lollipops. How do you do this? For the millionth time in motherhood I was grateful that this problem wasn't bigger. How would I explain the departure of a person, someone close to him? We had lost my father-in-law when he was 14 months old and while I try to make sure he knows who Pa is, I think his grandfather is an abstract idea for him. One of my aunts also died tragically last summer, but he was only briefly familiar with her. He saw Kayla every day and understood she was part of our family.

He lists us all by name when referring to our family: me, my husband, him and his little brother, then finally the cat and ending with Kayla. Even though he hasn't seen her in more than six months.

I know there are books and websites to help you deal with the swarm of awkward and difficult and painful conversations with toddlers. I know people have had to do this kind of thing for as long as humans have been around. But nothing can prepare you for when you child, brimming with innocence and determined curiosity, looks into your eyes and asks,

"When can we see her?"

And although I'd dealt with and, I'd thought, gotten over Kayla's death months ago, my eyes filled with tears.

"We can't see her, honey. Not for a long long time...But we can remember her, and talk about her, and look at pictures of her...."

This seemed to help. His next question was something else, about whether sharks are nice and what his babysitter had for breakfast, the kind of rollicking early morning non sequitor I live for.

And I think, let it last, please let it last, this world of his innocence, his curiosity, his ready acceptance for my trite explanations, his faith in me. For that world is understandable. In that world if something is unfair or confusing, someone he loves will provide the answers. In that world he is safe, from the moment his breakfast is placed in front of him to the stories read and the covers pulled up to his chin at night. In that world we will see Kayla, and Pa, and my aunt again. Of course we will. He has no doubts. This is his world, which I left long ago, but now thanks to him I have a special visa to visit.

We can't stay there for long, I know, but I'm going to enjoy every minute.

Shiner

My son gave me a black eye the other day. He didn’t mean it. I know, I know, that’s what all victims of domestic violence say.

And he didn’t mean to give me the fat lip either, a few days later. But I mean it when I say he didn’t mean it. I know he didn’t because…he’s not even two years old.

Both of these facial injuries resulted from sudden and unintentional contact with his head, a totally unpredictable and constantly moving weapon. The fat lip came at the end of music class, when he was dancing to “The Goodbye Song” and I just got too close. I should have known better.

It was made worse by the fact that I have braces. I get to things, eventually. I’ve wanted braces since I was twelve. And now I am over forty and have braces and two toddlers, a surreal combination, a kind of visual testament to my fondness for procrastination.

The black eye was subtle at first. Immediately after the blow, it was merely a painful lump. The next day, however, a day I go into the office, it was a purple welt just under my eyelid. No one asked me what happened, but finally I offered an explanation, even to people I don’t know very well (Amy from Accounting, the Mass Pike Toll collector, the guy at the lunch place where I get a salad) just to subconsciously defend my husband against their silent judgments.

The fat lip wasn’t as noticeable, especially since the gash was on the inside, where my braces had shredded my kisser like a cheese grater doing a number on some unsuspecting lump of Parmesan. But it did look as if I’d had them done. My lips I mean. Which I wouldn’t, of course, because now, having gotten the braces, it would just be way too vain, even for me.

My son knew none of this of course, being twenty months old. But I started to wonder about the pain our children cause us – intentional or not, throughout the course of our lives. And I remember hurting my own mother. Toddlers are always getting hurt – falling, tripping, bumping into things, scrapping with each other – and sometimes their clumsiness spills into our orbit.

But what about the injuries of the heart and mind? When will they begin in earnest? I know, and I wince at the memory, that I told my mother I hated her. I told her to leave me alone. I probably made her wait in the car when summoned to fetch me from practice or a party. I told her the cigarettes weren’t mine, that someone’s parents would be home, that I was sleeping at a friend’s. I’m sorry, Mom. Wow, it took me twenty-five years to say that! I might as well have just dropped an anvil on her head. It probably would have hurt less.

I remember how my brother and sister and I would hide in the front hall closet when my Dad got home from work. One day as he went to hang up his coat we burst from the darkness to surprise him with joyful screams – slamming the door directly into his bald forehead. That was painful. But not as painful as years later, pulling me off the back of a motorcycle he’d pleaded with me not to ride an hour earlier.

There are worse things, I know, but what I do not know is how to prepare myself for the onslaught of challenges my children will present to me in this age. Intentionally or not.

Will they mock me on Facebook? Will they Twitter in exasperation about my unending lameness? Will they lie to me, disrespect me, resent me – online or via text??? Or, worse of all – will they forget me completely and disappear into those worlds of screen and sound, only meeting my eyes when forced, skulking around like my worst nightmare, like…well, like myself at 13?

Luckily I have some time to figure it out. Or so I think.

Or we could move to – where? Nope.

I just returned from a four day trip and while I was awarded the obligatory hug and kiss upon arrival, my son has eyes now only for Daddy. “Want Daddy!” he screamed this morning when I tried to cuddle him. Let me just scrape my heart up off the floor before I go to work.

And I can’t wait for the next time his little head crashes into me.

Because I prefer the black eye.