Magoo told me the other day that he wants to be a paleontologist when he grows up. Then he self-corrected and told me that no, he just wants to be a “regular dad” who stays home. He wants to be a “regular dad” the same way I’m a “regular mom.”

He also said he doesn’t want to be a grandpa either because grandpas have to move REALLY far away from home, so far that they have to drive all day and all night to get home. And also they die sometimes and he doesn’t want to die ever.

I guess Laylee’s not the only one thinking about grandparental death. I’m not afraid of it. My parents and Dan’s parents are not allowed to die. I am also swearing off death. I still need plenty of time to decide what I want to be when I grow up.

I’m thinking about becoming a professional student. Maybe I’ll be a high school or college teacher. I’ll definitely be writing for a living. Perhaps I’ll get a black belt in karate. What do you want to be when you grow up?

Laylee’s been learning about letter writing at school. Here’s a transcription of a letter she recently wrote to her teacher:

Dear Miss Snop/Rachel,
I woke up early. It was 7:00. First I got dressed. Next, I looked at the clock. Then, I did my homework. Last, I played. Did you wake up early? What time did you wake up at? Do you know that I know that yar name is Rachel? Are yar perents dead yet? Can you come to my birthday party next year?

From,
Laylee

Dan thinks it’s funny that she’s come to think of her teacher as being so old and authoritative that it’s highly unlikely her parents are still living. I find it more amusing that she finds nothing insensitive about asking her about it straight out, followed by a birthday party invitation.

The juxtaposition suggests that she’s either trying to be sensitive – perhaps the party invite is a gesture of consolation in the event that the parents have passed away – or she is seven years old and the death of a parent and the event of a birthday party carry roughly the same level of importance in her eyes.

Laylee: Mom. Magoo and I are hunting. We’re shooting cows to get milk.

Me: You don’t shoot cows to get milk. You only get milk if they’re still alive.

{PAUSE}

Laylee: What can we get if we shoot them?

We’re trying to fight the media-oric power of Santa’s publicity machine and teach Laylee and Magoo that Christmas is actually a religious holiday with fun attached as a festive bonus. Some days we win and sometimes the kids get all “Manger, what? Maybe I’ll care if you tell me it was full of liquid sugar.”

So tonight for family night I asked Laylee to tell us all the Christmas Story minus the reindeer, elves and abominable snow people. She asked me for a refresher and using the Little People as props, I took her through the basics.

When we got to the sinister part where Herod told the wise guys to come and tell him when they’d found Jesus because he wanted to worship him too, Laylee went into full panic mode. “I don’t like this part. I hate this story. He wanted to hurt the baby! I don’t like this part. I don’t want to tell it.”

She completely lost control and started shaking and bawling. Holding her in my arms trying to comfort her fear, I told her it was okay because he didn’t get to harm the baby. God protected Jesus and told the wise men what Herod had up his sleeve. She didn’t care if the baby got hurt or not. It was enough to know that someone was evil enough to want to do it. It was too scary.

We’ve talked about this story a bazillion times before and she’s never been bothered by it. When we get to the Herod part, she usually flinches, gives little smile and shakes with pretend fear and a look that says, “Phew! That was close.”

What was different today?

Adult things. I’ve been talking about hairy scary adult things for days, flooding, sadness, homelessness, despair, destruction, death and loss. To her I explained the disaster in a way a 4-year-old could understand. I gave her the Bambi version. “Bambi. Your mother can’t be with you anymore.”

Then I proceeded to watch news footage, talk on the phone with friends and family and cry about what I’d seen. “Bambi. Your mother can’t be with you anymore.

“Hey Thumper, don’t tell Bambi that his mom was brutally murdered by a faceless thug with a shotgun. They’re everywhere these days. It makes me cry just thinking about it. Bambi will likely be the next to go but don’t tell him. It may stress him out.

“Like I told you B, your mom’s gone on a long vacation but everything is juuuust peachy.”

I got her calmed down with sugar cookies, something I never thought I’d hear myself say, and I now pledge to be more protective of her innocence. She’s a baby in a world that wants her to grow up way too fast and she’s not deaf and I am not equipped with a soundproof telephone booth in which to cry and muse about the horrors and tragedies of this world in her presence.

She seemed to bounce back quickly, although her mental state is altered to the point that she’s now convinced she’s a feline and will only answer to sentences that begin with the word “Meow.” But then I’m not sure that particular disorder has anything to do with me, floods or evil biblical kings. She may just be four.

Have you got all your gear together yet?

And now I’m wishing a big hole would open up and swallow Laylee’s. 

Me and my big mouth.

She did this to me, you know?  With the questioning.  Why? Why? Why?

I broke down.  I did and there’s really no use placing blame.

Whenever we get to the part of Bambi where the shots are fired from the grassy knoll and the absentee father is forced to be a man and live up to his responsibilities, I say, “Oh, wow!  This is the part when Bambi gets to hang out with his dad!”Â  That is all. 

Sometimes Laylee asks what happened to his mom and I resist going into a lengthy description of the process of making venison jerky by fire-happy hunters who now sleep on a mamma-Bambi-skin rug.  I just tell her roughly what Bambi’s dad tells her, “She had to go away.  Maybe she’s running errands.”

So this last time as we’re watching, we get to that part and I’m busy on the computer, probably enthralled by one of your dad-gum blogs when:

Laylee:  Is this the part where Bambi’s dad tells him what happened to his mother?
Me:  No.
Laylee:  Why?
Me:  Bambi’s dad will never do that.
Laylee:  Why?
Me:  Because he doesn’t want to tell him that someone ate his mom.
Laylee [stunned-end-of-the-innocence deer-in-the-headlights silence]
Me [shoving my foot deeper in my mouth]:  Well, the hunters were just hungry.  That’s why they shot her.
Laylee:  [no response]
Me:  We all eat animals.  You know when we eat chicken or fish or meat.  We’re eating little chickens or fishies or cows because we’re hungry.  It’s okay.  We just need to eat meat and so sometimes we do and the hunters were just hungry too and so they needed to eat something.
Laylee: [Can her eyes get any bigger and her mouth any smaller? Answer=no]
Me:  They just like deer meat and how it tastes so they had to eat something so they just ate Bambi’s mom.  It’s okay.  It’s not that big a deal.  We do the same thing all the time.

Once I got started, I just. Could. Not. Stop.  If she doesn’t end up a therapy-junkie vegan, chained to the front doors of a gun store one day, I’ll count my blessings.