Sometimes I wish that there was a Let’s Go! parenthood guidebook out there, aimed at the big questions kids ask that you’re just never prepared for. Actually, it would make a great iPhone app.
It would have been handy one day, when, at age fourish, my son Silas looked out at the church steeple that we can see from our window and asked me why there are “T”s on a lot of churches.
I told him the T is called a cross, which is a sign for Christianity.
That, of course, was not sufficient enough—it rarely is. Kids excel in the follow-up. The next question was, “Mama, why is it a cross?” And, caught in a moment of wanting to be a modern parent who is honest with their children, a parent who tells it how it is, I said:
“Well, Silas, the cross is a symbol for Jesus Christ.”
“Who’s Jesus Christ?”
“Yes, right. Jesus Christ. We haven’t covered that?” How was I going to put this.
“Well, he was a very nice man that people really loved and believed in.” But, for some reason, I didn’t stop there.
“And well, a really horrible thing happened to him because he was crucified on this cross—which, means, uh, he was nailed to it—really, really horrible thing to do to someone, really awful—and well, he died on the cross and so today, the cross remains a symbol of Christianity to remind us of Jesus Christ.”
I smiled weakly, wondering when I was going to have my parent license revoked. Silas went back to playing, seemingly untraumatized. He’ll probably bring it up in therapy one day.
Since then, I’ve fielded the sex questions, the evolution questions (the latest: if humans evolved from monkeys then why are there still monkeys?)—but the death discussions are still the toughest. Luckily, Silas, at 8, has taken these questions on as all-knowing older brother who bluntly gives the life news to Moss, who’s now four. Of late, he’s been coaching him in the fact that the meat we eat used to be a living animal.
So when we were having fish tacos the other night at my parents house, Moss looked up from the delicious, beer-battered crisp halibut, and asked, “Are these dead-fish tacos?”
Yes, Moss, I said.
Luckily, there was no follow-up question. We just left it at that.