Have the Answers, But Not Telling (At Least For Now...)

HH #221 here at Ima on (and off) the Bima.

ProfK brought us a familiar observation here in her comment.  We, too, have gotten some really doozy-questions aimed our way during car rides, or alternatively, on our way out the door towards a car ride.

My favorite?  A couple years ago our Virgin Guinea Pig mysteriously gave birth.  OK, not so mysteriously;  unknown to us, she'd been pregnant when we bought her.  

Turns out, guinea pig gestation is much longer than that of most rodents and lagomorphs. Compare:  hamster gestation is 15 to 18 days, rabbit gestation is about 30 days, while that of the guinea pig can reach 72 days -- that's over two months.   The difference becomes clear when you see how guinea pigs come into the world:   fully formed, fur-covered, open-eyed, and munching on solids within a day.

So when Elder Princeski called me in happy-hysteria, MOMMY, THERE ARE BABIES IN THE GUINEA PIG CAGE!, naturally this became a source of great excitement.  

A few minutes later, it also became a source of great confusion.

Always the Imp (then age 4):  Mommy, how could the guinea pig have babies without an Abba?

Me:  There must have been an Abba with her in the store, before we bought her, but then we brought her home and it took a long time for the babies to come out.

Always:  (Pause for thought).  Mommy, how did the babies get inside the mommy?  

Me: (Wasn't expecting that one yet).  Well... (Stalling for time.  She's only four, I mean, really). 

Always:  Is it true that the doctor puts the baby through the mommy's vulva, into her tummy?  (Yes, she already knew one V-word, way back then.)

Me:  (To self)  Only if the Mommy is married to a doctor.  

(To Always)  Well, it's something like that.  But it's kind of complicated, and you know, we really are supposed to be going out now.

Always (looking me straight in the eye):  It's okay, Mommy.  You don't have to explain everything.  Just tell me the important parts!

Oy vey....

Keep the balance,

ALN

Don't Have the Answers, But Glad You Asked

The Challenge:  Describe your job in one sentence or less.

My Answer:  My job is to listen to kids.

OK, so sometimes "listening" comes in the form of watching them draw, or joining them as they play, or helping them surf the net, or just sitting nearby while they read.  And, of course, the kids I listen to are sick, or are recovering from being sick, or were sick in the past, or are sick again.

Leave out that last part about the sick kids, and replace what's left with the additional cleaning, laundry, dishwashing, fetching & carrying, and we've just described the Second Shift, a.k.a. The Home Front.

I admit it:  Part of me has been waiting for years for my kids to get a little older, so we could start having some real conversations, the ones that extend beyond "Why can't I have a cookie? But why?!?"  It seems that time has arrived, and the questions have been rolling in.

Elder Princeski will be ten soon, and her questions tend to reflect her newly-developing empathy and Theory of Mind.  Always the Imp has just turned six, but her line of questioning (once she gets past all those unreasonable demands resulting from her sugar addiction) has always pushed the envelope, amplifying her imp-like attributes.

Yesterday afternoon I decided it was time to euthanize the poor goldfish who, having displayed multiple signs of illness for nearly half a year (and had long since been placed in isolation from his healthier peers), was now showing acute signs of imminent status change. 

Elder Princeski took an interest and even assisted.  We used an ice-water bath, recommended as the most humane method by Dick Mills in You and Your Aquarium (London: DK), while Always hid herself away until the deed was done.  Later, of course, there were thoughts and reflections on the matter, which surfaced today during Shabbat lunch.

Always the Imp:  Mommy, when you die, I want to keep the whole house for myself.  But I don't need the things inside it, you can give those to somebody else.

Me:  [Which Left Field did that one come out of?  Oh, maybe it was the fish...] Why?  Do you want me to die soon?

Always:  Of course not, but when you do, much later, when I'm already big...

Elder Princeski:  Mommy, I don't want you to die for a long time... but when you do, I'll keep the things inside the house.  I won't need the house itself because I will be married and my husband will buy me a house.

(Short discussion on the topic of religious vs civil inheritance laws.)

The conversation then evolved into a series of questions about Grandma (that's my 95-year-old grandmother -- see here), wondering how much longer she would continue to live, and if she wants to live much longer, and whether, were she to become very sick, dependent, and pain-ridden, she would choose to die (from what she has told me in the past, I wouldn't put it past her).   

We did our best to answer all of these clearly and honestly, with equal measures of optimism and realism.

Then there were questions about death itself.  What does it feel like?, and Does it hurt? and Do people know they're dying?   I told them about the reports I had read on near-death experiences, in which people described feelings of well-being, comfort, and being reunited with lost loved ones.  I told them that no one could prove whether these things really happen, but that many people felt and believed that this is what had happened to them.

Throughout this conversation, my internal voice was asking how much of an influence my Day Job was having here on the Home Front.  I think about death a lot, because I encounter death a lot, and so it is on my mind --  sometimes at a frequency that surpasses what I would consider to be a level of healthy denial.  

I try to keep that to myself, at least around the kids, but as they grow older they develop an awareness of what I do for a living;  Elder Princeski has even accompanied me to work events a couple of times. Sometimes they ask questions about work, and while I don't shy away from answering, I try to keep my answers short and to the point.  

The thing is, kids know about death.  They think about death.  They wonder about it, and they have questions.  At a certain point, they lose their dog, or their grandfather, or their neighbor, or their parent, and they learn that death can't be avoided.   

All of this obligates us to invite their questions, listen to their concerns, and share some answers -- gradually, thoughtfully, and straightforwardly.  Which we tried to do this afternoon.

Suppertime brought with it a whole slew of questions, this time about Down Syndrome, its causes and effects.  For another time...

Keep the balance,

ALN

Verlyn on the Familiar

Today's piece is on the geography of familiarity. Here's a taste:

Recently, I’ve been thinking about the geography of familiarity. By that I mean something like a map of my habitat, the paths I travel most often, the places I feel most comfortable, the routines embedded in the rural and urban landscapes I know best. Most days, familiarity seems inherent in the world right around me, but every now and then I remember that it’s really an artifact of consciousness, a form of perception that can be lost, say, in someone with Alzheimer’s. (New York Times online, June 3, 2009)

What can I say.... I'm inspired, yet again. His thoughts speak to my mind and soul. I hope you feel the same.

Thank you yet again, Mr. Klinkenborg, for getting it so right.

ALN

Into Another World

(If you missed it, see Maybe I Should Write About It).

The view from their living room window -- dry hills interspersed with grasses and low-lying bushes -- was oddly familiar, in that I could have mistaken it for the California of my childhood. 

I had parked the car on the street above.  There was plenty of parking;  most residents in this area don't know how to drive a car and cannot afford one.  The early afternoon air was hot and still.  The inside car temperature approached that of an oven from the moment I shut off the engine.  

I crossed the sidewalk, paused, and headed toward the double flight of stairs.  To my left, three middle-aged, dark-skinned men squatted over a flattened carton, dealing cards.  The stairs, framed by simple metal railings, abutted a series of dirt-filled, half-meter brick tiers in an uneven stack like some child's haphazard block construction.  They led me down to one of a series of dreary dun developments, each four stories high and six living units across, fronted by an empty patch of dusty soil.  Most of the buildings carried a rusty sign vainly remarking a municipal-sponsored refurbishment in 1976, and despite this, they all looked as though they had somehow survived five decades or more.

As expected, there were no signs pointing the way toward the house of mourning.  The numbering was haphazard and I could not find the right building.  In response to my query, an older man placed his hands on my shoulders and literally rotated my body to the right and downward.  

His murmuring suggested I had a ways to walk, and the apartment I sought was in fact the last one in the staggered row of developments.   As I followed along the row of buildings, there was a smell, of pungent, unfamiliar spice and slightly fermented grains, which seemed to grow in intensity as I approached the entrance.

The door of one of the ground-floor apartments had been left wide open, and the spotless living room floor reflected an image of a hefty woman lounging on her sofa.  She jumped in with an answer  before I could get the question out.  "Where -- ?"  "Up on the third floor."

The door was closed and had no markings on or around it, save a mezuzah with a cheap plastic cover.  Inside the house, the extended family -- his mother, sister, two brothers, four aunts, three uncles and a cousin -- nearly filled the small living room.  His mother had a black mourning cape draped over one shoulder, and as I entered she glanced up, sighed and shifted the cape to her lap, stood, and clung to me.   She sat down, sighed, and offered me a chair near the middle of the room.   "My heart..."

A foursome of aunts and uncles sat around a coffee table playing cards, throwing each card onto one of four piles with an aggressive THWAP.  Somehow, it felt only slightly out of place.  His sister poured me a cup of cola, which his mother refilled after every sip I took.  She exchanged a few words with her daughter.  I was waiting for a translation, some statement about how it was all over, or referring to his time in the hospital.  But no.

He had some new clothes, the sister related.  They're in G's office.  Do you think you can talk to him about getting them back?

Of course.  His brother would be needing those clothes, so carefully chosen only two months before.  

The mother continued her conversation with an aunt who was sitting across from us, while I talked to the sister and made a few phone calls in an unsuccessful attempt to contact the cable TV representative and ask him to come pick up the cable box which nobody in the household now has a use for.  

Sometime later, we exchanged good-byes and I made my way back down three stories, along six dreary buildings, and up two outside flights to street level.  I got in my car, drove out of the neighborhood and back into to my infinitely more complex, familiar -- and for now, sadder -- world.

Keep the balance,

ALN