I live in fear that someone will spill the beans to my boys and tell them I have a brain tumor, say that cancer or that I am sick.
Paul and I decided not to not tell the boys anything when I had my surgery. Other than to say mommy was going on a trip for a few days and would be super tired when she got back and would probably need to take naps, we maintained a life as usual approach. In our minds, they were too young to understand the magnitude and gravity of the situation and frankly we couldn’t figure out how to dummy it all down for a three and five year old.
We went, and still do, go to great lengths to keep their lives normal and undisturbed and their schedules on track. Yet, no matter how elaborate our production and efforts are, my radar is always on and tracking what I suspect they know and if I suspect any beans have been spilled; welcome to my other full time job.
At the playground today pushing Cooper on the swing while he squealed, “higher, mommy… higher like a rocket ship in the sky”, my radar went off.
I love you Mommy.
Love you too little dude.
Hey Mommy, I wrote a letter for you when you died.
Wanna hear it? It goes, Dear Mommy… I love you and you’re my favorite and the best. It’s ok that you are died because I wrote you this letter and I love you. Love C-O-O-P-E-R the garbage man. Isn’t it great?
Why do you think I’m going to die?
I don’t know. You just died, that’s all. I wrote you a letter.
Are you sad?
Yes. You aren’t pushing me on the swing anymore and my friends aren’t here playing with me.
The moral of the story is that when you hear a stampede, think Horses not Zebras. Who knows what my little fellow was thinking. I’m pretty certain it had nothing to do with brain tumors, cancer and illness and had a whole hell of a lot to do with just being a kid. It all turned out to be a friendly, yet unintentional reminder from my four year old that ‘it is what it is’. Curiosity killed the Cat. Not a Zebra.