Reality, head-on

We are driving home from a long day of swimming - first was J's swim lesson at the neighbor's pool, then a play date with my nieces at their pool in Mays Chapel. JBL is taking K back to her mom's, while I am shepherding J home as quickly as possible. It is already well past her bedtime.

J, however, is still coming down from her big day, and is chatting up a storm as per usual. I acknowledge her observations while flipping through radio stations and changing lanes on the beltway. Her tone suddenly changes and my ears perk up. I listen more closely, dropping my half-hearted 'Mm-hmms' to focus intently on her direction.

"I still have so many questions. I am waiting to see if you're getting tired of answering them." She has said this numerous times of late - she knows I take her barrage of questions as a sign of intelligence, and she brings them to my attention with a sense of pride. Sometimes, though, she becomes uneasy. Because...questions? Sometimes they bring answers you don't want to hear.

Last weekend we were driving home from another play date, and J asked, "Why do dogs have to die?" My stomach clenches even as I type that. Of course, as with previous discussions about death, I wanted to get the answer just right, but this time her tone told me she was Getting It. I took my usual all-truth approach, and tried for a light tone. All things die, but all living things create new living things, so the cycle continues forever. Even non-living things 'live' in cycles, like stars. She kept questioning, and I kept answering, and the whole thing devolved until she sobbed, "I don't want to die! I want to stay 6 forever!" I wanted to talk about heaven, but I just couldn't. She didn't want theories - she wanted certainties that she could sink her teeth into, and my glossing over how our bodies break down was no longer cutting it. She is not 3 anymore.

So as she hesitates on this evening's ride home, I brace myself. She wants to know if she will still be alive when our Sun dies. I am immediately taken back to a similar question I posed to my father (but I was in 3rd grade before the idea occurred to me), and I recall the feeling of fear and panic at his answer. No, you will be long-dead, he told me matter-of-factly. We all will. But that's OK - it will be hundreds of billions of years from now. My dad, the scientist.

I again answer her gently and simply. And again she is brought to tears. Why can't I just lie? Why can't I conjecture that there will be a way for us to live forever, perhaps to be discovered in her lifetime? It feels wrong, that's why. And why does the Santa Claus/Easter Bunny thing feel right? I wish I knew, dammit. I wish I knew. The only comfort I can offer is an assurance that that she will live a llllooooonnng time (something a voice inside me says may not be true), and I distract her with the fact that she has family members who have lived well into their 90's.

The rest of the ride goes smoothly as sleepiness begins tugging at her. The sunset facing us as we head west on 70 is spectacular, full of pinks and oranges and bright blues. We talk about God and natural beauty. She asks about chasing the sunset, and the speed we'd need to catch it. We stop in the grocery to use the ATM, and she is shocked that it is open after dark. She has never seen the lights inside the store shine so bright in her tired eyes, and she is confounded that there are customers and workers awake and functioning at this late hour.

Back in the car, we are headed north to our neighborhood. The sky is a deep indigo, and the trees to my left are black against the faded sunset. To my right, a fat, full moon slowly rises above the horizon. It glows a dull orange, but is an enigmatic celebrity. J's mouth is agape.

"WOW, MOMMY! LOOK AT THE MOON! I see the face!" She peppers me with another slew of questions about the moon and distance and gravity. She is still sleepy, but cannot contain herself. Her wonder at absolutely everything pours out of her like rays of sunshine. And I am again relaxed as she consumes reality head-on.