The Dark Side

The other night I was taking care of both of the kids, and I said what I knew would be a temporary farewell to Zelda - I needed to rock Orson to sleep, and asked Zelda to try and go to sleep herself while I took care of him. She's been fractious lately, and holding Orson (who was already half asleep) and trying to read to Zelda, who was willfully not going to sleep, was quite a chore.

I asked for a hug, she wouldn't give me one, so I headed out saying, "Good night. I love you."

Zelda: No, you don't.

Dad: Yes, I do, more than you possibly realize. You are my little girl.

Zelda: No, I'm not, I'm a big girl.

Dad: You're right, you're my big girl, and you are my only daughter, the only daughter I will ever have, and I will love you forever.

Zelda: Dad?

Dad: Yes, sweetheart?

Zelda: Are you still alive?

I am standing in the middle of her room, holding a prone Orson. She's lying there in bed.

Dad: Yes, Zelda, I'm still alive.

Zelda: Are you going to die?

Dad: Not for a long time. Grampa John and Tertia are almost twice as old as I am.

Zelda: How old are you?

Dad: I was born thirty-seven years ago. You were born three years ago. Your brother was born almost one year ago.

Zelda: Okay.

And I said "good-night" again, and put Orson to bed. Toni tells me there are experts (and there are always experts) who say it's better for a child to wrestle with the idea of mortality now, rather than when they are five or six. I just wonder who will die next, and what we'll do.

Where's the line? Between a reasonable acceptance and awareness of death and morbidity?