There are two things that you can’t get away from, yourself and the truth.
Both are constantly butting heads in my life, and as much as I’ve tried to move forward, there is a six year old who isn’t having one bit of it. I have a grandson who never fails to ask impertinent questions of me. I’m not sure if he is as unflinchingly direct with others, but he has found in me a person that seems to have gone down every path in life, good or bad, and therefore must have the answers to his burning questions. I am apparently the hot mess of information.
Not long ago I had the opportunity to babysit both grandsons for a couple of days. My older grandson, E.J. constantly admonishes the younger one with disapproving looks or words of wisdom such as “That’s rude” or “We don’t ask those questions” and then looks at me with an eyebrow cocked that says “He is un-coachable, what can I say?”
After dinner, and near bedtime, I’d managed to sneak into the bathroom to brush my teeth. My younger grandson, C.L. sauntered in and stood leaning against the doorway with his arms folded in a very casual stance. I prepared myself for what would undoubtedly be an uncomfortable question.
“So Mimo, what happens to your relationships anyway? Do they die, or leave you, or what?” I was taken aback for a moment, but it was a fair question which deserves an honest answer. He waited expectantly, his blue eyes unblinking.
I thought back for a moment over the course of the past six years and our colliding paths, even if our ages differed by nearly fifty years.
At four years old C.L. and his brother sat on my brand new gray couch and asked me why I didn’t want to live with Papa anymore. How do you explain to a four and six year old that relationships are messy and hard, and that sometimes they just don’t work, no matter how much you love and care for the other person? Do you tell them that even though your world will change dramatically, you will do your level best to keep their world the same? I had neither an elegant nor a text book answer, so this is how our conversation proceeded. “So, you know how you and your brother love to play together?” Two nodding heads encouraged me to continue. “But sometimes you just want to go in your room and be alone, right?” Vigorous nodding and a couple of “Uh huh’s” followed as they waited for me to bring this odd train of thought back around to their question. “That’s how it is for Papa and me. We love each other and we love you. We’ll still do everything that we’ve always done with both of you, but we each just need our own rooms.” This answer seemed acceptable to the four year old, as he expressed delight at informing me that I would have, not only my own room but my own house. I could see that his brother remained unconvinced, having two extra years of experience in being disappointed at times.
Two years later I explained again as I watched the man I loved, die from cancer.
God bless him. He went along with every cockamamie idea I had. I bought a juicer, he used it. He drank smoothies and Essiac tea because a nurse had suggested it to me. He ate salads, and cut out sugar and took capsules of turmeric, all the while taking chemo through drips. He did all of this for me because he knew I needed something to hang on to, some sort of control, but no matter how many times we closed our eyes and wished for a reprieve, we always woke up further down that road.
When he took his last breath it broke my heart. His broke too when he realized the full truth of our lives thus far. He would have to leave without me and neither of us had ever considered that we wouldn’t have an option.
Talking about death to children, while trying to explain it to yourself, is an impossible thing to do. How do you tell the truth without scaring them? You can’t. I couldn’t. I hadn‘t found my words yet.
So here we are, standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his eyes still on me and all I have is “Well, I’ve been around a long time so things happen along the way. Hey, didn’t your mom tell me you have a girlfriend?” I asked, changing the subject quickly.
“Yeah, well I did have two girlfriends but one of them broke up with me.” He stated this very matter of factly with his head cocked to the side.
“So, what happened?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“Well” There was a long pause before he continued. “We were playing this game and I told her how it was supposed to be played and then she punched me in the stomach and broke up with me.” His arms were still crossed while he looked at me expectantly as if I might have the answer for this unfortunate behavior because I, of course, had experience with this type of problem. I could have explained it but he was still in Kindergarten. I hesitated before asking the next question.
“So what did you do then?”
A wide smile spread across his face. Without missing a beat, and as sincere as any six year old can be he stated. “I went home, put on my dad’s cologne and a suit and got another girlfriend.”
Well, there you go. So this was the reason for the question. I had just re-examined my life and prepared myself for an in-depth conversation about my mistakes and all he really wanted to know is what happens when you break up?
This bright, funny person trusts me enough to ask the hard questions that plague a six year old. I’m flattered and honored, and slightly mystified. Maybe I will finally answer some of my own questions or maybe it’s just that simple. Put on some perfume and a new dress and walk back into the world. It certainly seems to have worked for him.