My daughter Bella entered the world in 2011, just a few years after my mom passed away from pancreatic cancer. From the moment she arrived, with her fuzzy newborn hair and chubby cheeks, I was determined for her to know about the incredible woman who once shaped my life. I began sharing stories about my mom as soon as I thought Bella could grasp them. However, I never truly considered what would come next.
When Bella turned five, I found myself in over my head. My dear friend, Emma, an experienced teacher, shared some invaluable wisdom about discussing tough topics with kids. She advised that when children ask questions, it’s essential to respond honestly, but not to overwhelm them with information before they’re ready. Oops.
One day, while waiting in line at the grocery store, Bella casually exclaimed, “Your mom is dead!” I managed a composed nod, trying to maintain my best “I have it all together” demeanor. But then she shot back with, “But where is she?” My words stumbled as I attempted to explain the different beliefs about life after death. I told her my mom believed in the natural world and that if she looked closely enough, she might find her spirit in the rustling leaves and shining sunlight. Little did I know, this was just the beginning of her curious inquiries.
In my eagerness to introduce my daughter to the memory of my mom, I inadvertently created a child who was just as enthusiastic about discussing death. “Your mom is never coming back, and you can’t hear her voice,” she proclaimed one day in the car. “My grandmother is dead!” she announced to the mail carrier.
Despite her relentless questions, it wasn’t until nearly two years later that she asked the one that had me bracing for impact. “Mom,” she said one day, her little voice coming from the backseat, “how did your mom die?”
“Her body got really sick,” I replied carefully. “Not like catching a cold. It’s a different kind of sickness that usually happens to grown-ups when they’re very old.” My mind raced with thoughts of all the children battling cancer whose stories I’d seen on social media.
“It mostly happens to grown-ups when they’re very old,” I reassured, hoping to ease her worries. “Because she was sick, her body stopped working.”
At that moment, I felt a wave of relief wash over me as she processed my answer. But then, like a cannonball, she let loose another bombshell: “Is one day your body going to get sick and stop working?”
“Probably not,” I admitted, feeling defeated. I couldn’t bear to lie entirely.
“But am I going to die?” she pressed.
“Everything has a beginning, middle, and end,” I explained gently. “Including our lives. But you’re just at the start, and the end won’t come for a long time.”
She sat in silence, mulling over my words. Finally, breaking the tension, she asked, “Mom? Can I roll down my window?”
I want my kids to know everything about my mother. I want them to understand that what happened to her doesn’t have to happen to me. Yet, I can’t make any promises. All I can do is navigate these conversations as best as I can, being honest when questions arise and providing comfort when they need it. In between these tough discussions, I create joyful memories that they can carry forward. I might yell too loudly when they jump on the couch, surprise them with toys they don’t need, and take them on rainy walks where we splash in puddles.
We exist, and that’s the best we can do while we have the time together.
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In summary, navigating motherhood without your own mother can be challenging, but it’s filled with opportunities to create lasting memories while addressing tough questions with honesty and compassion.
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