Letter to my children: Nighttime peregrinations
/Dearest Beloveds,
A recent evening after saying goodnight to the two of you, I staggered to my own bed. We had swam earlier that day, the sheets were clean, and The New Yorker beckoned. It was 7:36 pm and your father was on call. I was looking forward to passing out obscenely early and not waking up groggy at 5:20 for my morning sadhana.
Then the peregrinations started.
A small body appeared at my elbow.
“Hello.”
Dragon has perfected the artless question. “Momma, what time is it?”
“Time to go to bed.”
“How do you make fluff?”
“I have no idea.”
“How do you make plastic?”
“In a laboratory with chemicals and test tubes.”
“How do you make wood?”
“Dragon, it is bedtime. The Good makes wood.”
“The side of my mouth hurts.”
“Would you like me to put some Vitamin E on it?”
“Yes please.”
I threw off the covers, found the Vitamin E, and applied it to his skin. “Okay, bedtime. Off you go.”
And fell back into my bed.
Five minutes later.
“Momma how do you make paper?”
“Dragon! You startled me!” I looked at you. Your blandness gazed back at me. “You make paper by grinding up wood and turning into a big mash and drying it into sheets.”
“Could we do that?”
Oh Goodness Corinna, see what you have done.
“Maybe, we’ll see. Now, bedtime. Give me a kiss.” A small wiry body launched itself onto me for a big SQUEEZE.
Two minutes later.
“Momma, how do you make chalk?”
“Dragon!”
“What?” Total innocence. Total sincerity.
“I have no idea how you make chalk.”
“Can I touch my earrings?”
“Yes, my love, it has been 6 weeks.”
“My front hair is pretty long. Why is it long? It is a like a stump.” Dragon pulled straight up on his front hair. “Stump, steeeee!”
“Dragon, bedtime.”
“Okay, Momma, how do you make cardboard?”
“Oh my love. You make cardboard just like you make paper. Now bed. I love you. Sleep well.”
Two minutes later, I felt a presence at my elbow.
“Momma.”
You have got to be freaking kidding me…OH!
“Bean.” You crawled on top of the covers, snuggling close to me. You were limp with sadness.
Your face was streaked with tears. Your eyes were soft and wide. “Momma, we are all going to die.”
“Oh my love. Oh Bean.”
No longer dealing with plastic.
“I don’t want you and Dadda to die.”
“I hear that.”
I was also eight years old when I had my first realization of mortality. Sitting on the second floor landing paralyzed with terror as I listened to a dinner party downstairs. The sheer panic of thinking one day I might need to navigate the world without my parents. My stomach pinned me to the floor - transformed into lead. I was neither able to move to interrupt the party nor to go back upstairs. I sat there and cried. Between.
“Will you die before me?”
“Usually that is what happens, yes.”
This was too much for you and fresh tears leaked down.
“But I don’t want you to die!”
“I know, but Bean, remember, even if we are not here to squeeze you, we are with you. Our hearts are connected. Our fish are connected. The Good lives in all of us and connects us. Baba speaks to me all the time when I slow down and listen.”
“What if we all die at the same time?”
Well, I tried to pull her out. Let us just see where this goes.
“All of us dying at the same time sounds great. How would you like to die?”
“In my sleep.”
“Good, me too. No pain and in my sleep all at once.”
“So maybe you can die when I am 30?”
“Hmmmm, you might want more time than that. Would you like to be a momma?”
“Yes.” Emphatic.
“And a grandma?”
“Oh yes.”
“Okay, then I would recommend aiming for your 80s. If you make it to 80 in all likelihood you would have lived long enough to do many wonderful useful things - and if grandchildren happen, you are old enough to meet them.”
“How old will you be when I am 88?”
“135”
“How old would Dadda be?”
“137”
“How old would Dragon be?
“85”
Total calm flowed over you. “Okay Momma, that is the plan. We will all die at the same time in our sleep when I am 88.”
Oh my beloved. Do I pop this bubble? When you have just confronted such a big learning? No. More than enough time for that later.
“Okay, this sounds like a perfect plan. We will add die in our sleep when you are 88.”
“Good, yes.” You jumped down off the bed, give me a perfunctory kiss, focused determination in every movement.
“I love you Bean. Sleep well my beautiful child.”
“I love you Momma. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Well, you never know.
