If it wasn’t so depressing, I’d have laughed at the talk I had with Monster today. Ok, I did laugh a little, but who wouldn’t have seen it coming? I’m trying to have a serious talk with a three year old.

I was laying down reading and Monster was flapping around on the bed, driving his car on my book and trying to convince me it was a turtle. All was normal. Then he starts tracing on my back and he asks me “why did you want feet on your back?”. So I try and tell him, not really knowing the words I want even though I’ve had a long time to think about this.

Me: “I wanted the feet to remember my babies that aren’t with me anymore”

Monster: “Why?”

Me: “Well sometimes when mommies are growing a baby in their tummy, something happens and you don’t get to keep the baby. Something goes wrong and the baby dies…”

Monster: <insert crumpled irritation here> “I’m not talking about BABIES! I’m talking about TATTOOS!”

Me: “Yes, but I got the tattoos as a way to remember my babies and keep them close to me”

Monster: “Close to you?”

Me: “Should we read the story?”

Monster: “Yep”

So we sat down together and read this story that I ordered last year and donated to my local MOPS group. I was hoping that this would help to explain to him what had happened seeing as I often mention Darla and during my last pregnancy (I was never able to name that baby so I just call it Baby) he would regularly talk to my stomach and tell me when Baby was sleeping or awake. Immediately after I miscarried he just stopped mentioning Baby even though I never really told him what happened.

Monster: “What does died mean?”

Me: “Well, it’s like if someone goes away but they can never ever come back again”

Monster: “Is it like killing bad guys?”

Me: “Kinda, but we don’t kill people. Besides, it’s rude.”

Monster: “What’s on your face?”

Me: “A pimple”

Monster: “Why?”

Me: “It just happens sometimes. It will go away on its own”

Monster: “Let’s have a snack. Can I have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”

And I knew I’d completely lost him. I didn’t bother pulling out Darla’s ashes, or the ring that I wear that some of her ashes are in. I accepted the hugs and the gentle arm strokes he gave me when I cried a little. Tried to answer his questions as best I could for a three year old. I didn’t really know what to say when he asked why babies turn into angels or how to explain that killing bad guys wasn’t really along the same lines as a baby dying. I guess next time he asks I’ll try again and just go from there. I know he remembers what I tell him, but understanding it is a much different story.

But it’s a start, right?

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