My Soccer Playing Princess

My four year old daughter, Charden, has been super crazy lately. I was venting to my mother about how crazy she is being, and she said, “Why don't you talk to someone who has been though it? Maybe they can tell you what to do.” My response was, “Mom, NO ONE has been through Charden.”

PINK!

Charden is very unique. She is a lot like Beau, but I think her mind works a lot like mine, which is scary. I can tell she is always thinking, her little mind is always going every which way. She will ask the most random of questions that are not common for a four year old. I can tell that she has thought extensively about death, because it is something that she doesn't understand. She is continually asking questions, which is normal for a four year old. It's just the type of questions that she asks that are so unique. Here is a recent conversation that her and I had:

Charden: “Mommy, what would you do if this house didn't have any food?”

Me: “I would go to the store and buy some.”

Charden: “Yay! But... what if the store didn't have any food, only tires?”

Me: “I would go to a store that had food.”

Charden: “Yay! ...But what about Rapunzel?”

Me: “What about Rapunzel?”

Charden: *laughs, then points to the blank wall behind her*

Okay, so... it's obvious that Charden worries a lot. She is clearly worrying about our family and how much food we have. She sees me cook three meals a day for her, and she wonders what I would do if there is no food here. But tires? What the hell? Where did that come from? And I don't even know what to think about Rapunzel. We haven't watched “Tangled” recently, or even discussed Rapunzel in weeks (Princesses are a main topic of conversation for us). I know that she worries, and she gets that from me. It's too bad. It's no fun worrying all of the time. But I'm also glad that it has her thinking about life. What if we didn't have food? She is not allowed to stay that she's “starving,” because she obviously isn't. I tell her that she doesn't know what it is to starve. I want her to appreciate having food readily available at all times.

Now, getting back to the princesses. I have absolutely no clue where this obsession came from. I am not a princess type. I don't wear make-up. I have three pairs of shoes that I rotate throughout the year. I wear t-shirts and jeans. I'm feminine, but not “girly.” My favorite colors are black and purple. Charden is obsessed, I mean OBSESSED with pink, dresses, princesses, jewelry, make up, diamonds, and flowers. Why? I certainly didn't push the pink. All of a sudden, maybe a year or a year and a half ago, over night, it was PRINCESS MANIA in my house. She used to have extensive conversations with me about princesses. She asks to wear a long, beautiful dress every day. She has this pink night gown that Mimi bought for her that has a picture of the Disney princesses on it. It is her most prized possession. She has ripped a few times because she is in love with the way that the sheer fabric feels, she can't stop holding it. She twirls around in it, pretending to dance, and she makes up princess songs about dancing through the forest and picking flowers while she does it. Of course, she has asked Daddy many times to be her prince. When he turns her down, Jamie is the next in line to fill that role.

Charden has a tremendous amount of energy and she doesn't know what to do with it. She is always asking for more of everything, which is typical. The television is the only way I can get her to stop asking continual questions. It is also the only way I can get her to stop crawling around on the floor, either pretending to be a baby or a cat, in which case she is either meowing or crying at the top of her lungs. Even two year old Adrienne gets tired out from playing with her. She is non-stop. I swear she wakes up talking. I'm pretty sure that she is ADHD. I would never medicate her though, or even pursue that diagnosis. Charden would simply not be Charden if this energy were contained.

Charden has a lot of trouble focusing. If she focused more, she would be able to learn so much more. I know she is so smart. She can outwit any adult who isn't me or Beau. She has manipulated both sets of grandparents before to get what she wants. She knows how to ask for something without actually asking for it- like a string of questions that will lead up to what she wants. Or not even a question, but a statement. For example:

“Jamie looks tired.”

I know exactly what this means. She is saying “Jamie looks tired” because that will get me to notice that it's the baby's naptime, so I will pick her up and put her to bed, and then come down and give Charden candy, because Charden only gets candy when Jamie is down for her morning nap. This is only one example that I can think of. Normally the string is much more complex than that. And usually, it leads to candy.

Her head is always in the clouds, and it's a great possibility that she is thinking about princesses while she's floating around up there. In order to get her to stop picking dandelions on the soccer field during a game, we would have to bribe her with candy to pay attention and score a goal. Often, she would be found on the other side of the field, away from the action, twirling around like a princess in the sun. 

Her power of observation is extremely limited, just like her father. She is unable to find anything. We have a rather small house, and one time she couldn't find Adrienne, who was standing in the middle of the kitchen.

Here are two more examples of her air-headedness:

I was babysitting a 10 month old, who was sleeping upstairs when Charden went down for her nap. The baby went home while Charden was sleeping. About an hour after she woke up, she asked, “Mommy, where's the baby?” I said, “He went home.” She said, “Wow, I can't believe he is still up there sleeping!” I said, “No Charden, he went home. Like I just told you.”

Another time, we were waiting for a pizza to be delivered and for our friends to come over. We were outside on the front porch. The pizza came first. I took it inside. I came back out and sat in a chair by the front door. Charden came up to the front door, right next to me, and looked inside the screen door. She asked into the house, “Mommy! What are you doing in there?” Mm hmm.

All in all, Charden is a great kid. She is just difficult to control. She has always been on the go, since the first moment I felt her kick. She as a real soccer player while in utero. Non stop. She was ready to come out too- ten weeks early. In the NICU, the nurses were unable to keep a blanket on her because she kicked and squirmed so much. She really is a miracle. And so unique. Life without her would be just plain boring, and unchallenging. I guess having a healthy dose of pink in my daily life isn't so bad. Hopefully she will be able to apply her energy to succeeding in life someday. Until then, it's all about the princess.

My Soccer Playing Princess

(Of course, her shin guards are pink, too).

Brittany

I have never been the social butterfly. In fact, I'm introverted to the extreme. There is a whole crazy, messed up WORLD going on inside my noggin. I have very few close friends that I can count on one hand. I would do ANYTHING for these ladies, and I know they would do the same for me. You girls know who you are. There is one in particular who has had my back since I was two years old. Brittany and I grew up next door neighbors. We were inseparable. What makes this so crazy, is how incredibly different we are today. We spent thousands of days together, and yet we have grown up to be complete opposites. Let me elaborate. I got married at the age of 21, have three kids, am overweight because of said three kids, live in a house that is 30 minutes away from where I grew up, and I love being settled down. Where is Brittany? She's in Paris. Teaching Pilates. In her first ever serious relationship at the ripe old age of 29.

Brittany is one of those women who is absolutely gorgeous, and she doesn't know it. Yes, these women really do exist outside of Twilight and Fifty Shades. She's a Pilates instructor, for Christ's sake. And has big green eyes and dirty blonde hair, and a body that most women would kill for. She has this amazing ability to thrive in settings that I would fail miserably in. She moved to France, unable to speak French, with no real plan- and this isn't the first time she has moved to a foreign country with no plan and a few bucks in her pocket and THRIVED. I'm afraid to travel to any foreign country if I don't speak the language. She moved in, settled in, and is very successful. France had no chance against her. What amazes me is that she has a bit of a flaky personality, but she manages to pull it all together and find her happiness whenever she goes. Last time I talked to her, she told me she is saving her money to go to Thailand. Do you want to know what I know about Thailand? I like Pad Thai. That's all I got.

Brittany and I were strange children, to say the least. After all, I do love me some weirdos. As kids, we had a club in the closet in the spare bedroom of my house. The title of the club? “Idiots in a Closet Doing Nothing.” We had a pledge, (that I would kill to remember), and we sang to our club flag, which was a picture of a giant piece of macaroni and cheese. Speaking of macaroni and cheese, we were master chefs in the preparation of the stuff. And none of that cheap crap. Kraft all the way. (Perhaps this is why I fail at every diet I have ever tried- because I feed my kids this stuff once or twice a week and I LOVE IT DEARLY). We concocted the perfect preparation techniques- it was always super cheesey, never “bally” (which is the term we made up when there wasn't enough milk/butter in the mix and it got all nasty). I would never divulge these secrets to anyone. The perfect bowl of mac and cheese is a secret, built upon years and years of experience. The only people who know are me, Brittany and Beau. We will not be sold out. Well, Beau might be, and that's fine. We need the money.

Brittany and I would get into petty childhood fights, and who didn't with their best friend? I don't remember what most of the fights were about, but I do remember we would fight over JTT. If you are a girl and were born in 1983, 1984 or 1985, then I don't need to elaborate here. You KNOW who JTT is. For those of you who were not born in these years, JTT is Jonathan Taylor Thomas, our heart throb. He was on the show “Home Improvement,” and also did the voice of Simba in “The Lion King.” We would sit and day dream about him, about being the voice of Nala, Simba's lion girlfriend in the movie. We would write in our diaries about him. We would also write in our diaries after we fought about how much we hated each other- and these entries would often end with “Oh, Brittany is here to play. Gotta go. I guess I still like her.”

Oh, JTT. You're so hot.

It seemed we were never bored as children, though I know that can't be true. We played Barbies, made “egg babies” with little diapers constructed out of Kleenex. We made magnets out of cardboard and tried to sell them on the sidewalk like it was a lemonade stand. We made up dance routines and rollerskating routines in her basement and forced our mothers to watch us. We played 'Saved by the Bell,” and the “winner” was always Kelly, leaving the loser to decide between Lisa or Jesse or even worse, Tori. Gross. (My brother Denny was always Zach, and I think he still believes he is to this day. I know for a fact that he is still in love with Kelly Kapowski). We ate together, drank together, played together, laughed together, cried together, lived together.

I love Brittany more than these words can write. Now we are thousands of miles apart, living completely different lives. I only talk to her once or twice a year, and I have no idea when I will see her next. I asked Beau if I could go visit her in Paris, and he laughed and laughed. It's just not a possibility at this time with three children under the age of five. No matter how far away we are, we are always connected by our memories and our past. She will always be a part of me. And we will forever and always be idiots in a closet doing nothing.

Love you Britney Anne!

Me and Brittany in her room, thirteen years old. Please note the art project in the background. 

It's of the Pope. I told you she was (and is) a weirdo.

I LOVE WEIRDOS

I love weirdos. I think people who are “strange” or “different” are the best. People who try to fit into society are the ones that you need to watch for. It is totally and utterly a compliment if I say that you're weird. Beau is the weirdest person I have ever met, and I married him! He has this dry and witty sense of humor that I adore. He says the strangest things at the weirdest times, and he can come up with amazing one-liners on the spot. He has this dragon tattoo on his left calf that he got when he was 18. Did I mention that it's purple? I call it his Barney tattoo. He swears he thought it was silver when he got it. Have you ever seen a silver tattoo? Me neither.

I love people who think outside of the box, who aren't afraid to question, and who have original personalities. Why would you want to be like everyone else? In high school back towards the end of the 90's, I was one of those “gothic” kids. I was the whole nine yards. Red and black striped tights, Marilyn Manson t-shirt, green Doc Martins with purple grape shoelaces, pig tails, and I loved it. I had a small group of friends, and we were all pretty similar, but all so very unique in our own ways. We were often singled out for being so “weird,” when we were the ones getting straight A's, and not doing drugs on the weekends. I remember after Columbine happened, we were even more on the forefront, being singled out constantly. We found it amusing at the time, because we were nothing like those assholes in Colorado. We loved ourselves, and our fellow classmates. We were mad that society had such a negative stereotype towards us, but we didn't let that change us.

I love people who think about their life and the lives of others, mortality and spirituality, but they do it while questioning. What is real and what is not, what matters and what doesn't. People who know that life isn't what it seems, that there are deeper meanings in everything, and to question religion and what it stands for. Those are the people I love. Why live in a box, believing everything that is told to you? What kind of progress would we make as a race?

Charden is a very strange child, and why wouldn't she be? She really had no chance, with us as parents. For Father's Day, the card she made Beau had a purple ghost on it, and nothing else. In preschool she was asked to draw a self portrait of her self at the beginning of the year, at the middle, and at the end. The first one is a normal, three year old self portrait. She's upsidedown, and you can make out two little legs sticking up at the top, and hair at the bottom:

She turned four in November. In January, her self portrait included her teacher, which she adored:

Finally, at the end of the year, her self portrait looked like this:

That's Charden, in a cocoon. Her final self portrait is of her as a caterpillar in metamorphosis. How awesome is that?

I'm going to do my best to raise my kids to think differently, to see everyone as equal, and to question. Please question everything. Now, that doesn't mean you can question everything now, little Charden. If I tell you to wash your hands because you picked up that pile of “rocks” that you found in the backyard (it was rabbit shit), you do it. Don't ask why.

Here are some more incredibly random questions Charden has asked recently:

“But Mommy, if we die, how will we go potty?”

“Mommy, did you know that old people like pineapple?”

“Mommy, where do berry bushes grow? Do they grow in Africa or in Paris? They're in Africa, aren't they?”

“Mommy, when I die, what family will you pick for me next?”

Clearly she is already thinking differently, and that excites me.

I feel that I have always been different than those around me, and I see it in Charden as well. Sometimes it's not the easiest life to find yourself different from your peers, but it can be incredibly interesting and rewarding. There is a great peacefulness found in the acceptance of others and their differences from yourself. The key is to find that acceptance in you. The happiness will follow. You need to know what you believe in and why. It doesn't matter if it's different from what your neighbor thinks. If you're an atheist, you should be able to say why you came to that conclusion beyond “I don't believe in God.” Why don't you? If you're Christian, be able to say why. And saying, “I believe in God because the Bible says so” is not a good reason. I spent a ridiculous amount of time thinking and feeling about religion, mortality, and spirituality, and I am very confident with who I am. I am going to do my best to get my kids in the same place, though I think experience plays a major role is the acceptance of one's self.

So to all the weirdos out there, keep it moving forward. Keep being yourself. Think beyond what is right in front of you. That is the only way that progress can be made.

The Worst Day of My Life

The birth of your first born is the greatest day of your life! Several hours of labor with your frantic and nervous husband by your side, maybe holding your hand or your leg, dabbing your brow, some pushing, and then the ultimate experience of holding and cuddling your newborn for the first time. It's so amazing, gazing at your new born as the oxytocin is released in your brain, and you form a bond with that child that will last beyond a lifetime. Well, what if this isn't what happens? What if everything that you visioned for the birth of your first child is not reality?

The worst day of my life, by far, is the day that my first, Charden, was born. I remember the day with sadness, a sinking feeling inside, and some guilt (oh, and a ton of pain). It had been a normal pregnancy up until 29 weeks. I had gained a lot of weight (60 or so pounds), but I was also one of those careless, stupid pregnant women who thought that pregnancy = I can eat whatever I want to get the hell out of the way of my chocolate cake! I went to the doctor for what I thought was something minor, and my blood pressure came back high. I was told to go home and rest and come back the next day. I did, and it was still high. I told my doctor I was really stressed out, and she told me, and I will never forget the look in her eyes, that it was about to get even more stressful, because she was admitting me to the hospital.

I had heard about pre-eclampsia before, but I had no idea who serious it was, or why. So I found myself in the perinatal unit, in my own room, strapped up to all kinds of monitors. I did not understand what any of this meant. A perinatologist came in, and talked with me about “the plan,” which was to keep me on hospital bed rest until the baby was born. The “goal” was to get me to 33 weeks. I thought that was totally insane- of course I would make it that long! But do I really have to lay in this bed in this hospital for all that time? That was WEEKS away! You're crazy.

I was admitted on Wednesday, November 12^th, 2008. On Thursday, I was given an ultrasound, which revealed something called “Double Bubble Syndrome,” or, Duodenal Atresia. Basically, her stomach was not attached to her small intestine properly, causing gas to build up in her stomach, creating a “double bubble” look on the ultra sound. I was told that 20-30% of babies that have this may also have Down's Syndrome. I had a FISH test done the next day by amniocentesis, and the results for Down's was negative. This whole process up to this point was very surreal. It takes my brain a long time to process information like what was happening, and the fact that my first baby wouldn't be able to eat when born and would need immediate surgery to SURVIVE.

"Double Bubble Syndrome" or Duodenal Atresia, an Ultrasound Picture

On Sunday, November 16^th, I woke up with a stomachache. I figured I was just hungry. I ate some breakfast. The stomachache got worse. I told the nurse. I vomited. Within hours, I was doubled over in pain. There was a sharp, throbbing, stabbing pain in my upper right abdomen- right where my liver is. I was admitted to Labor and Delivery. I was crying from the pain, writhing from it. They didn't want to give me anything, afraid it may mask any other symptoms. I was in this pain FOR HOURS. Excruciating. My blood pressure was 210/150. I was 30 weeks, 3 days pregnant. I was terrified.

Finally, somewhere between 5:30 and 6:00pm, my labs came back abnormal. I had HELLP Syndrome, a deadly extension of pre-eclampsia that would kill both me and Charden if she were to stay in me any longer. I was rushed to an emergency c-section, and Charden was born at 6:22pm.

Her birth was silent. The only reason I knew she had been born was because the doctor said, “Hello, Baby.” I will never forget those two words. Charden was whisked out of the room before Beau could even see her. She weighed two pounds, eight ounces, and was 14.5 inches long. I was not pregnant any more, and I was not holding my baby. I didn't even get to see my baby. I had no idea what she looked like. I was taken to recovery and wrapped in this warm, cocoon type thing because I was trembling like crazy. They brought Charden out, in an isolette, before she was transported to a children's hospital down the street that thankfully, has an excellent NICU. I got to see her from a distance of about four feet before they took her. Charden would spend 34 days there, but that whole experience is another story.

So, where did this leave me? I was left alone, in my hospital room, no longer pregnant, with no baby in sight. Beau had left to be with her, which was fine. Yes, I needed him more than ever, but SHE was now more important than ME. I was terrified, and I could not wrap my head around what had just happened.

HELLP Syndrome is pretty rare. Wikipedia says:

HELLP syndrome is a life-threatening obstetric complication usually considered to be a variant or complication of pre-eclampsia.[1] Both conditions usually occur during the later stages of pregnancy, or sometimes after childbirth. "HELLP" is an abbreviation of the three main features of the syndrome:[2]

• Hemolysis
• Elevated Liver enzymes
• Low Platelet count

HELLP usually begins during the third trimester; rare cases have been reported as early as 21 weeks gestation. Often, a patient who develops HELLP syndrome has already been followed up forpregnancy-induced hypertension (gestational hypertension), or is suspected to develop pre-eclampsia (high blood pressure and proteinuria). Up to 8% of all cases present after delivery.

Women with HELLP syndrome often "do not look very sick."[3] Early symptoms can include:

• In 90% of cases, either epigastric pain described as "heartburn" or right upper quadrant pain.[3][4]
• In 90% of cases, malaise.[4]
• In 50% of cases, nausea or vomiting.[4]

Source: www.wikipedia.org/wiki/HELLP_syndrome

Basically my liver was about to explode and I was about to die. I have never experienced full, onset labor pains, or a vaginal delivery, but I have experienced HELLP Syndrome, and I'm going to go ahead and assume that that pain was comparable, if not more severe than giving birth.

So, yes, the worst day of my life was when Charden was born. It was full of dread, uncertainties for my and her future, disappointment, and guilt. My head was spinning, and I was alone. All of my plans for a full term, healthy baby delivered into a world of happiness and certainty were gone. I was in pain, and confused. I would never be the same, which is what everyone says about seeing their first child. I didn't get to hold my first child for two days.

Today Charden is a healthy, incredibly happy and ridiculously curious (and hyper) four and a half year old. This story leads to the happiest day of my life- the happiest moment, exactly, which was when Adrienne was born, full term, healthy, and CRYING. That story will be for another day.

Charden, Climbing a Tree

The Difficulties of Being a Hausfrau

It is very difficult to be a stay at home mom, especially for me. I never in a million years thought I would be doing it. I also never thought I would have three children (we only wanted two. Oops). I had big plans for myself, all that involved me working an awesome job, making a ton of money, while someone else cared for my kids. When the economy sunk in 2008, and my husband and I were both laid off within a year, we had to regroup. Charden was a baby. Beau decided to use his GI Bill to go back to school. I took a part time job at a retirement community (which lead to a promotion and a full time job). Three years later found us with two more kids, a mortgage payment, and Beau leaving school to pursue a job in computer programming. I just wasn't bringing in enough cash, and I also knew that Beau didn't have the multi-tasking skills to care for all three kids. There was no way for us to afford care for THREE children. So, here I am, HOUSEWIFE. Never saw that one coming.

It is difficult, but not how people really think it is. And you don't realize how incredibly difficult it is until you are HERE. The physical work isn't hard- changing diapers, dishes, laundry- anyone can do that stuff. It's so much more than that. You lose yourself in your kids. Sometimes I sit here and try to have a single original thought that doesn't involve them, and it's impossible. I am EVERYTHING to EVERYONE in this house. Period.

It's exhausting. It's exhausting because all five of my senses, (and sometimes my sixth sense of intuition), are constantly being challenged. I am listening to hear if someone is crying, screaming, hurting, hungry, tired, whiney (oh, god, the WHINING never stops!). And by the way, my two year old thinks she's a cat, which means she MEOWS all the time. I am watching, constantly assessing the situation- are they doing the right thing? Are they being bad? Where did those crushed up crackers come from I JUST VACUUMED DEAR GOD. Smelling- I'm sure you can guess what I'm smelling for. Is there poop in that diaper AGAIN? What have I been feeding this child? I am constantly being touched. All. The. Time. GET AWAY FROM ME. I probably say that more than I should, but I just don't want to be touched all the time. (I think my cat, Oliver, knows this and sinisterly plops himself on my lap as soon as the kids are in bed. It's his revenge, as he used to be my one and only baby). Tasting is probably the sense that is used the least, because heaven knows that I'm not ever tasting my own food. I'm incredibly lucky to eat it while it's still semi-warm. No, I'm tasting their food to see if it's too hot or cold, dreaming of a time when I could easily eat a giant bowl of Kraft Mac and Cheese and not have it immediately apply itself to my waistline. Having all five senses constantly used in this manner makes for one exhausting momma at the end of the day. There isn't much physical work involved with this portion of housewifedom, but the strain on the senses leaves me feeling like I just ran three marathons by the end of the day.

Obviously, the main job here is to keep the kids fed, clean and healthy. The challenge is keeping them HAPPY as well. And any stay at home mom will tell you that what makes your kids happy most of the time is not what keeps you happy. Yes, it's a wonderful feeling to watch your children giggle and having fun, but how many times can I watch Jake and the Neverland Pirates before I want to kill myself? I love having the kids color and paint, but jesus, what an ordeal to clean up after. I recently realized that I spend a large portion of my day debating how to do things with the least amount of clean-up. I hate cleaning. And, by the way, my kids think I love it because I am constantly doing it. MOMMY LOVES DOING DISHES BECAUSE SHE DOES THEM ALL THE TIME!!

Then there is the whole other aspect of being a stay at home mom. I feel guilty about this most of the time but it's the truth. I do not like being a stay at home mom. I have no sense of self anymore. There is literally no adult conversation throughout the day, and it gets incredibly lonely. Aside from having no sense of “me” anymore, I have also put any sort of personal goals on hold. But there's just so much more to this sacrifice, that I have trouble putting it into words. Being a stay at home mom is the ultimate sacrifice- you give up yourself as a whole, and you become everything- a servant, a maid, a taxi driver- to everyone around you.

I envy the moms who love doing this- who were made to do it. It must be awesome to love being at home with your kids all day. Being a Buddhist, I'm supposed to find the happiness of the now, the mindfulness of the moment. And I do, but there just simply is no challenge here for my overactive brain. There are many wonderful things about it, of course. My kids are very disciplined and have awesome manners. They are polite, kind and considerate of others (Charden is the only girl on her soccer team who will stop playing to help up a teammate who has fallen). I have a very special bond with Jamie, my youngest, because I have been with her since day one. She is totally a momma's girl, which melts my heart. I literally cannot imagine leaving her with anyone else at this point. It is fulfilling to a point, and I love their little faces oh so much. There is just no break. Ever.

I would like to give mad props to my husband, who is not only an amazing person, but also incredibly understanding of my plight, and the need for my own alone time. He was a stay at home dad before I was a stay at home mom, so he knows how hard it is. I could not do this without him and his compassion towards my situation. Also, he is an amazing father to his three little girls. He has no idea what is coming to him when they become teenagers. That makes me smile.

I guess one of the main point I am trying to make here, besides the difficulty in being a stay home mom is this. If you are not a stay at home mom, please don't judge. It is not what some of us want to do. Some of us don't have a choice. We do not sit around all day enjoying all of our “free” time (Haha). And likewise, I will never judge a full-time working momma, because I have been in those shoes as well, while pregnant, with a boss who was anti-family, anti-pregnancy.

The goal is to find my happiness, underneath all of the mom stuff. It's there somewhere, and every once and a while it pops its head up in the form of a girls night out, or a cuddly movie with my hubs. I spent a good half hour the other night with a smile plastered across my face as I watched Beau playing with the girls in the yard, everyone laughing hysterically and loving each other. My kids are everything to me, all of the good and the bad rolled into three adorable little packages. I cannot imagine my life without them, but that doesn't stop me from dreaming about it.

  Me and My Babes on My Birthday

What I tell My Kids About Death

What you tell your kids about death is an incredibly personal decision, based on years of contemplation, religious and spiritual beliefs, and experiences. Charden is my oldest, and she's four. She has had a couple of experiences with death, at the age of three.

Clementine

Clementine was our overweight, diabetic cat. She was a sweetheart, don't get me wrong, but pretty much completely useless. She also had an allergy to plastic. That's right, plastic. And when Charden was born, the plastic that our house contained multiplied by the millions. Baby toys EVERYWHERE. Plastic legs on the bassinet, plastic legs on the high chair, plastic rattles and walkers and you get the picture. Anywhere that Clementine rubbed against plastic, a sore would break out and turn into a giant scab. To save you the disgusting picture that I could easily paint for you, I will make a long story short. Hundreds of dollars and many vet trips later, we discovered the source of her allergy, and she began a series of steroid shots. From that point on, any time she would have an outbreak, she would get a shot, which lead to maybe 6-8 shots a year. We were warned that so many shots may give her diabetes, and it did, starting twice daily insulsin shots. When she was 8 years old, and Charden was three, she began to pee on everything, and that was the end. We decided to put her to sleep, for she was just too sick. I really thought this was going to lead to a HUGE melt down from Charden. I wondered how I was going to explain death to her? She's only three! I'm not a Christian, so I couldn't just throw the old “Heaven and the beautiful paradise of the after life” at her, because I simply don't believe in it. So I braced myself to tell her, hoping to come up with the answers magically when she asked them.

Me: “Charden, I had to put Clementine to sleep. That means that she is dead.”

Charden: “Why?”

Me: “Because she was just too sick. Sometimes when a pet gets really sick, it's best to put her to sleep.”

Charden: “I'm going to miss her.”

The End.

There may have been a few “I miss Clementine!” statements since then, but that was it. No tears, no difficult questions about where we go after we die. Nothing. Awesome.

Sea Monkeys

A few months after Clementine died, Charden's grandma (Who will be forever from now on referred to as “Mimi”), bought Charden a Sea Monkey kit. I'll admit, I was probably just a little bit more excited about this experience than Charden was. I bought the distilled water, and we hatched them. They grew, and Charden watched with wonder for about 3 days, and then pretty mush lost interest. There was one sea moneky, however, who was particularly awesome. He was a biggin, and had a mustache to boot. We affectionately named him Larry. So, probably about two months into being Sea Monkey owners and adorers, I attempted to change the water, because it was getting nasty in there. In so doing, I effectively killed every last one. Even poor Larry. I didn't tell Charden (perhaps, mistake number one). She noticed the missing tank rather quickly, so I began to explain. I reflected on the experience with Clementine, and I figured it would follow that path. Hell no. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Me: “Charden, your sea monkeys died. I'm really sorry.

Charden: “What? WHY?!!!!!”

Me: Ok... this isn't going as I had expected.... “Because they were sick.”

Charden: “WHAT?! WHY?!!!! I WAS SUPPOSED TO TAKE CARE OF THEM!! THEY WERE MINE AND I WAS SUPPOSED TO TAKE CARE OF THEM! WHERE ARE THEY???? WHEN ARE THEY COMING BACK??”

Me: “Umm...”

Charden: “LARRRRRYYYY! LARRRRRYYYYY! I LOVED THEM I WAS SUPPOSED TO TAKE CARE OF THEM!!! IT WAS MY JOB!!! WHERE ARE THEY?!!!!!!!!!!”

Me: Oh shit.

This outburst contained GIANT tears and sobs for days on end. I even rushed her out to the pet store THAT DAY to by a new Betta fish (who she fondly named Larry, and is still with us today).

So what do you tell your kids about death? I am a Buddhist atheist, which really makes the question difficult. I envy Christians, because the idea of Heaven is just a beautiful one, and a great way to tell your kids about death. Unfortunately, I do not believe in Heaven. So what do I believe? I'm not really sure. Reincarnation is definitely something I have thought about rather extensively, and is at the forefront of my beliefs on death. I think it is a possibility. (I also think that Heaven is a possibility, just not probable in my mind). I tried to explain to Charden that her sea monkeys are “everywhere, all around us.” Her little three-year-old mind definitely didn't grasp that concept. So I kept that conversation simple. “The sea monkeys are gone. They died. They don't exist anymore. They are not coming back.” She cried a lot, but eventually stopped asking where they were and when they were coming back.

I have made the decision to not tell my kids anything about death. As Charden gets older, and I can see the little wheels turning in her head, I encourage her to come up with her own ideas about death (and life and religion and spirituality). And I think this is the key to raising smart, self-aware, moral and free-thinking human beings. I will of course guide her (and my other two daughters) in morality and what is right and wrong. I certainly will not tell her that God is real or not real, that Heaven exists or doesn't exist. She can come up with her own conclusions, as I was allowed to do as I was growing up (thanks Mom and Dad!).

So recently, out of nowhere while eating dinner Charden asked: “Mommy, what happens when we die?” I answered with, “What do you think?”

“I think we become babies.”

...and I think she may be right. And totally amazing.

Clementine and Baby Charden, having a face-off