I have the sinking feeling that, as you get older, more and more of my entries will start off with how bad I am at updating this. If technology could advance to a point where my thoughts were transferred directly to the computer, that would be great.
Four... how are you four? It doesn't always compute with me that I no longer have a baby or a toddler, but a kid. A sweet, clever, loving, joyful little kid. I often wonder what, if anything, from this age you'll remember as an adult. I remember very little from the age of 4, although you occasionally remind me of things.
Four seems to be a magic age for you. It's as if you have also suddenly realized that you are growing into a bigger person who is capable of many things. Some days you seem fully excited to embrace this - others, you seem so afraid of it. You've clearly stepped up your game. Little things, like clearing your plate from the table or helping me with a task without being asked, are now regular occurrences. You even argue less! And most of the time, you puff out with pride when told "my, what a big girl you are getting to be!" But once a while, your eyebrows will furrow and you'll snap "no. No I am not. I'm just little!" There's a fear in you about growing up, and I think it mostly has to do with the thought of living a life apart from your mom and dad (although, I'm not sure you could pin point it).
Death has been a subject in the house as of late. You had your first experience with it when your goldfish, Purples, died this summer. We had a funeral in the front yard. You colored a rock for him. You cried. And then you returned to your life as a kid. And, as these sorts of things do, questions cropped up at random at times. And I did my best to answer. We're not religious, so I can't point you to a book that tells you what happens. I try my best to show you that all we have are ideas and the things we feel in our hearts, but explain how we just don't know for sure what happens. I told you of heaven. I told you of nirvana. I told you of reincarnation. I told you of simple nothingness. I asked you what you thought happens, to which you replied "I don't know! I'm just a kid!"
And the subject was gone for a while, but has returned with our dog, Dawn's, cancer diagnosis. She is dying, and we know it's coming. I've not sugar coated this or made any attempt to hide it from you. You know she is sick and that we cannot make her better. You know that she is going to die. So the questions happen again: What is making her sick? Can something make me dead? You've also declared how you never want to die and just want to be alive forever - same for mom and dad.
And on one side, I have no desire to teach you of death. You're a little kid! You should think about unicorns and playgrounds and snack time - not death. On the other hand, I want so much for you to understand the world around you, and this is just another part of it. I want you to be able to accept both the sadness and inevitability of it all, and be comfortable in it without fearing it.
I hope that's what I'm doing.
