Last night Little Man was in a foul, foul mood.
I scrapped the normal evening routine and we took to bed early for Bible stories and mega-cuddles. We read all about Moses, the Pharaoh and the ten plagues.
He was intrigued by the blood, the frogs, the darkness. But it was the Passover that really sparked conversation.
LM: “Children don’t really die, do they?”
Me: “Yes, honey, sometimes children die.”
LM: “Five year olds don’t die.”
Me: “Sometimes, but you aren’t going to die. You’re fine. You’re healthy and safe.”
LM: *erupting into hysterics* “Grammy is going to die.”
Grammy is my mom. They have developed quite the special relationship (yay!!!). He asks no less than nine times a week when is Grammy coming over, can Grammy come live with us, can he marry Grammy.
I don’t love that some day, I will have to walk through the devastation of her death with him. I mean, Keith and I had a long discussion BEFORE WE WERE MARRIED about what an unholy mess I will be when my mom dies. It had never dawned on me, until last night, that I will now have to…share?…that process with my son. It caused a physical ache inside of me.
We talked about how Grammy has Jesus in her heart, and how as soon as she closes her eyes here, she will open them in Heaven (he likened it to pulling the trigger on a shotgun, because, hunting family). That comforted him, and I am so so SO SO glad that knowing Jesus already in the way he does brought peace to the situation.
But oh my word.
Parenting is hard.
And every day I wonder in what giant ways I am messing it up.