I don’t remember thinking about death one way or another when I was a child, so I have been surprised and curious about my sons’ attitudes toward death. When my older son was about seven, he developed a complete obsession with death and was forever making me take him to cemeteries all over the place. He eventually grew out of it. My younger son, now 12, seems by contrast to have a nonchalant, matter of fact and almost buddy-ish approach to the idea of death. Still working this one out, but this little piece recently showed up in the process:
Thus Whale Child, protesting my weight-training-sculpted bi- and triceps, after nine years of living with me. How is this even remotely possible?
my mom is important and fun because she lets me fry meat and boil pasta when we cook dinner on the weekends
my mom is important and fun because she plays x-box 360 and asks me to help her she plays lara croft and monsters vs aliens
– Whale Child for school Poetry Week.
Important and fun – that’s me!
Whale Child is eight and refuses to read, or contemplate reading, any dust-jacketed book with its jacket on.
We are about to move house. Preparing for the packers, I find I am finding a steady stream of bookless jackets all over the place.
There is nothing so forlorn as as a bookless dust jacket, I am also finding.
I ask myself: Have I failed as a mother or this a Sign of the Times?
As a mom who has had enduring mom issues of her own, I’m very conscious of the constant potential for creating such issues with my sons. “You’ll probably sit in a support group in twenty years and tell everybody how I did X or Y when you were small, and that’s ok,” I say. “I’ve been an insane and crappy mom lots of times. I admit it freely, right now, on the record, ok? It’s not a big dark personality-eating secret. It’s a fact you can get mad about right now, if you want.”
“Sure, whatever, mom, but you’re standing on my computer cord. Do you mind?”
Love you anyway, my favorite boys. Thanks for the bright bright red Mother’s Day fan and the Rooster Teeth shout-out with the super cool icons!
Whale Child: Mom, tell me again the story about (traumatic childhood incident involving his brother).
Me: I’ve already told it to you a bunch of times, sweetie. I don’t like telling it. It upsets me.
Whale Child: Well, why don’t you wear ear-plugs so you don’t have hear it?