Death is never an easy subject to discuss with a child. Likewise, visitations and funerals are the perfect venue for awkward and inappropriate questions and comments - even from the most well prepared child. Anyone standing within 12 feet of my son witnessed this firsthand a few months ago.
A good friend of mine had recently lost his sweet grandmother, and I planned to go to the visitation to pay my respects to the family. I was hoping to do this alone, but my plans were foiled when my husband had to work late and could not pick up Sam. So, in a pinch, I had to take Sam with me.
In an attempt to prevent awkward and inappropriate questions and comments, I spent several minutes explaining to Sam what we were doing, what he would see, what he should say, what NOT to say, etc. I also promised something fabulous in return for his good behavior. He acted as though he could be trusted.
We walked into the room, I gave him one or two quick reminders, and we headed towards the family. Suddenly Sam became transfixed with the coffin. I became nervous that something was going to be said that was not on the “approved” list, and attempted to navigate him out to the hall for a quick and private meeting. For the second time that afternoon my plan was foiled.
Sam looked at me, and in his sweet little confused voice he said “Is his grandma in that box?” I tried to speak over him and distract the mourners with hugs and well wishes, in hopes that they did not hear or notice my child. But he would not let it go. He looked at my friend’s mom, (the daughter of the deceased), and asked her if her grandma was in that box. Finally, he asked our friend if that was his grandmother in that box. Of course, they graciously acted as though my child was “cute” and brushed it off. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
I held (restrained) Sam by the shoulders and gently (forcefully) directed him out of the room. By this time the bizarre questions were flowing like water from a fire hose as Sam started to realize the gravity of what he had just witnessed. Using previously untapped ventriloquist powers, I smiled and nodded at familiar faces and curious elderly people, all the while, and without moving my lips, saying “Sam, quiet. Wait ‘til we get outside. Outside!”
The lobby doors opened and I headed for the minivan with my head held low. I was embarrassed that my son did not have the restraint to stick to our plan, and was hoping the questions did not upset anyone. I thought it was a poor reflection of my parenting. But I also knew that it was a big moment for my super-sensitive and emotional child as dots were connecting faster than his young mind was prepared to handle. We both learned an important lesson that day. Sam learned more about what happens when someone dies, and I learned that next time I go to a visitation, I will get a babysitter.
