I want to share a conversation I had with my eight
year old granddaughter. We’ve had many such interesting, and dare I say
philosophical discussions, usually when we’re in the car and have no outside
distractions.
“Poppa’s dead isn’t he?” she asked, catching me by
surprise. (Poppa being her maternal grandfather who died before she was born.)
“Yes,” I answered, waiting to see where she was going
with this.
"I never met him, did I?”
“No, he died before you were born, but he would have
loved you very much,” I said.
“Where did he go when he died?”
Oh great, I thought; now we’re into it. How do I reply?
“Poppa went to heaven,” I answered, cautiously. Was this
going to be reassuring, I wonder? Is she worried about death and what comes
after?
“Maybe he’ll get born again,” she says.
Well, hell, or is it heaven or reincarnation, or what. Where
does she come up with this stuff?
In for a penny, in for a pound, which is a really silly
phrase but its meaning is fairly well known. Ok, go for it, I tell myself.
“Some people believe that when you die, sometimes you
can be born again. If you lived a good life, it’s like you deserve another
chance.”
This I say to a child getting a Catholic School
Education, I’m surprised I wasn’t struck down by lightning on the spot.
And here we got to the crux of her question.
“Maybe if I got born again I wouldn’t have to take
medication.”
It broke my heart and I had to blink back tears that
this sweet young thing felt her need to take daily medication was a negative
thing, that it made her somehow…less.
I did my best to reassure her that taking medication is
just something we have to do, to help us live the healthiest life we can. I
told her that I take medication everyday too, but I’m not sure comparing her situation
to mine, (given the fact that I’m ‘old’), was really the comfort I hoped it
would be.
I think it’s so sad that children grow up feeling
ostracized for being different, and then as adults strive for individuality and
their own identity.
Funny, but I too had had thoughts about reincarnation, and
will share those on Friday, but for now, I want to end on a happier note, so
here’s another story.
This same child, much younger at the time, came to visit
and we were having a snack and watching a movie. Slouched down on the couch,
our feet on the ottoman (well, my feet were on the ottoman, hers wouldn’t
reach) we were eating potato chips.
She had control of the bag and was handing me chips, one
at a time, before giving me a handful all at once. I set them on my upper
chest, as with my semi-reclined position, and my generous bosom, I had a shelf
to rest them on.
I watched her mimic my action and immediately told her
not to do that, realizing the bad example I had set. I told her she didn’t want
to get grease stains on her nice T-shirt, but it didn’t matter about mine as it
was my art shirt and it was already covered with paint.
She looked at me very seriously, considering all this
information.
“So, it’s OK if you have paint on your shirt?”
What else could I reply but yes, it made sense with her
child’s sense of logic.
Maybe, sometime, I’ll share our conversation about where food comes
from.
What a kid, she keeps me on my toes.
No comments:
Post a Comment