Author: Sheila Quirke

Sooner or later, all children will learn about death.  Through the death of a grandparent, a beloved pet, maybe even a bug splatting on the windshield.  For me, I see death everywhere.  That may sound morbid, but it doesn’t feel morbid.  It feels more like life to me.

In our home, death is part of our day-to-day.  I have no doubt that is because of losing our oldest daughter to cancer.  Her death, her absence, has shaped our family profoundly.  That, too, may sound morbid, but it doesn’t feel morbid.  To us, it is simply our life.

We talk about our daughter’s death regularly.  We talk about the sadness her death created for our family, and how that sadness is felt differently for Mom and Dad than for our sons — one of whom was just nine months old when Donna died, and one who arrived a full four years after her death.  Our grief will never be their grief, but our grief surely shapes how our sons will learn about death.

Today will be another lesson in death and grief.  My sister’s mother-in-law died over the weekend and I am packing up the boys to attend the wake. Along the way, we will stop and pick up an uncle, a grandfather, and a great aunt.  This is Catholic style grief, yo.  Complete with a wake and what I assume will include a viewing.

As a child myself, I attended the wakes of a few family members.  My grandmother died when I was just 7.  I don’t remember seeing her in her coffin, but I do remember watching my Dad’s back as he leaned over his mother for a final goodbye.  I remember the tears that poured out of him afterwards — they were shocking, really, as I had never seen my strong, authoritative father cry before.  I remember his words, sobbed through those same tears, to my mother in the front seat of the car, “I’m an orphan now,” and being confused by the idea of a 43 year old orphan.  I remember the hot day in the cemetery at the burial and the grasshopper that jumped from my red calico skirt to my white ruffled blouse.  I remember how I wanted to jump, too, to get that grasshopper off me, but I didn’t.  I remember knowing, understanding, a cemetery wasn’t the place for hopping girls, screaming about bugs.

How did I know that?

My sons will be raised in a much more open and expressive home than I was.  Changing times and changing ways.  We have talked about what my 5 year old will experience today, with special emphasis placed on how we treat death and grief with respect.  A funeral home is not a place to run around with cousins.  There will be time for that later.  We have talked about the difference between when an old person dies and when a young person dies.  My son thinks that 88 is the best age to die, that people are sad for the loss, but they are happy their loved one lived such a full life.

He’s listening, absorbing the lessons we are teaching.

I have no qualms about taking our sons, even the baby, to today’s wake.  My 5 year old can decide whether or not he will view the coffin with the unfamiliar body inside.  He says no now, but I understand that his curiosity might come out.  And I am okay with his curiosity, as long as it is accompanied with a healthy dose of respect for the grieving.

There are two lessons, I think, is bringing my sons to this wake today.  One is about death and life.  That all living things eventually die, and that that death results in sadness that we call grief.  The second lesson is about respecting other’s grief, the simple importance of showing up, and supporting our family members in their sadness.

Already my boy is groaning about the khakis and collared shirt he will be wearing.  Little does he know about the tie I have for him, too, deep in the back of the closet.  We had to take a quick trip to the store yesterday when i realized the only thing they have to wear these days that fit are onesies and athletic shorts.  Part of that aforementioned respect, especially in honoring someone from the WWII generation, is to dress with respect, too.

From a brief discussion on Facebook yesterday, I know that not all parents agree with my  choice to bring the kiddos out to a wake of a distant family member.  I know that there are many parents that would find taking a child or baby to a wake as disrespectful in and of itself.  It will be challenging, to be sure.  Rest assured, if there is wailing today, it won’t be from my two little ones.  If so, we will remove ourselves promptly.

We believe strongly that the lessons we teach our sons about death and grieving as children will shape their experience with these two inevitabilities of life as they grown older.  There is no protecting our boys from the reality of death.  That is simply not an option for our family. Instead, we embrace these things as opportunities to feel, to express, to support.  My goal is to do as I want my sons to learn.  Pay my respects, give hugs and support to the grieving, and honor a full life well lived.  I see doing that with my children as an opportunity to teach and learn how death and grief and practicing empathy are part of life.

ISHKABIBBLE!  ISHKABIBBLE!  ISHKABIBBLE!

My five year old running down the hall outside my bedroom and loudly yelling nonsense words are how I wake up a lot of these summer days.

Our family discovered American Ninja Warrior on a fluke a few month’s ago.  At first, it was honestly comedy for us.  After the baby went to bed, it was something Mom and Dad could do with our five year old for a little while before bed at the end of some long days.  It was occasional, but now, it’s become destination TV.  Have you watched it?

IT.  IS. AWESOME.

First of all, it’s not passive television.  Our boy sets up his own obstacle courses for his stuffed animals around the living room or play room, dashing from floor cushion to sofa to train table.  He makes these awesome sound effects and his eyes get big every time one of the competitors succeed.  An errand at the post office this morning became joyful when waiting in line, the boy realized his imagination was all that he needed to turn the metal bars separating lanes of bored and waiting adults into some new obstacle called the “Line Changing Bars.”

In many ways, ANW is like the Olympics, but without the national bravado and parade of flags.  The TV formula is the same, with human interest stories of the competitors featured as intros before they run the course.  We learn about teachers who train in their off hours, coaches of special needs kids, youth ministers, brothers, cousins, fathers and sons, immigrants, “rednecks,” cops, moms — folks of all stripes who do this crazy thing because they can.

My son seems to enjoy the stories as much as the competition.

As his mom, I love that he sees all kinds competing for the same elusive thing — a victory at Mt. Midoriyama.  There are itsy bitsy teeny weeny little women who fare better than the six foot plus musclemen.  There are scrawny skate punks who get further than the more traditional athlete because they are lithe and flexible and scrappy.

LOLLAPALOOZA!  LOLLAPALOOZA!  LOLLAPALOOZA!

Sadly, our son has not been blessed with parents who are natural athletes or will push the team sport thing.  Dad is 5’8′ and I’m 5’5″.  It’s a fair guess that our oldest son, like his folks, will not tower over his classmates.  At five years old, he has a growing awareness that he is often one of the smallest in his class.  He has a growing self-consciousness about this that breaks my heart, cause there are some things you can protect your kiddos from, and others you can’t.

While our boy has mad confidence where books, facts, figures, and trivia are concerned (man, is he his parents’ child), I see tiny little cracks asserting themselves in his self-esteem.  When he is not self-conscious, he runs and jumps and climbs and plays physically just as he always has, but when he’s in a new situation, or meeting new kiddos, when he has a reason to compare himself to other kids, he will sometimes shut down without trying some new physical challenge.

That kind of sucks.

I want a different kind of childhood for my son than I had myself.  I was a scared little field mouse, hanging back rather than participating.  I didn’t conquer the big slide until I was 8 or 9.  I didn’t learn to ride a bike until I was 11 or 12.  Sheesh.  It wasn’t any fun watching my friends ride off into the sunset on those summer evenings while I sulked at my inadequacies and ineptitude.

Life if so much more fun when you live it, you know?  Slides are better when you have wax paper under your bum and land in a heap of wood chips, thrilled with the ride you just had.  Bikes are way more cool when you are standing tall, pedaling those pedals as fast as your feet will carry you, the wind on your face.

CHICKADEE!  CHICKADEE!  CHICKADEE!

I also love how intently my son will engage with the show.  He is cheering these folks on, caring whether or not they will finish the course.  When they stumble, lose their grip, fall in a pool of water that feels an awful lot like wet humiliation, he sends them encouragement, “That’s okay, Guy! You’ll do it next time!”  He is mesmerized.

And the empathy he shows and sportsmanship he is learning about is something this mother kvells over.  Watching these amazing folks give it their best, falter, but still smile is the stuff of parenting dreams.  Not everybody wins, and failing doesn’t make you a loser.