The Sister

There has been a lot of curiosity and concern around Elsie these days.  It's one of the most frequent questions I get: how is she doing?  Does she understand about Laurel?  The answer is: she's doing great.  She understands as much as a two-and-a-half-year-old can understand, which is, mercifully, not all that much.

I knew exactly how it would go before it happened.  We used to have this little game, Elsie and I.  Every day, she'd come rest her hands on my growing belly and ask me,

"Mommy, there a baby in your belly?" 

And I would answer.

"Yes sweetie.  See, she's kicking!"  and Elsie would feel for about two seconds before losing interest.  Or maybe the baby was still, in which case Elsie would hush her voice to a whisper and say,

"Baby's very quiet!  Shhhh.  Baby's sleeping."

It was only a matter of time before the question came, so I waited for it.

"Mommy, there a baby in your belly?"  

"No sweetheart.  Not anymore.  Baby's gone.  Baby died."  

Elsie seemed upset.  Upset that the answer had changed.  Upset that the game was over.  Upset at the tears welling up in my eyes and spilling down my cheeks.

I always let her see my tears, even if it's upsetting.  Children learn by example, and letting myself cry when I'm sad is one of the best examples I can set for her.  I don't want her to feel that she has to bury her own emotions, so I won't do it for her.  She understands that I'm sad.  She often tries to cheer me up.  Sometimes it works and she leaves me laughing.  Other times, I'm too low, and when she clowns around and then asks me, "You happy now, Mama?" I have to explain that some sads are big sads and they're not as easy to turn around, but that she always makes me feel love, and that's a very special thing.

The big question came up again, two days later.  A bit unsure this time.

"Mommy, there a baby in your belly?"

"No, my lady.  Not anymore."

"Baby died."

"Yes. Baby died."

Elsie gave a curt little nod, then perked up.

"There's a baby in MY belly!" 

That does make me smile.  "Oh is there?  How wonderful!  Tell me about your baby!"

That is that.  She gets it now.  Occasionally, she checks in, just to make sure the status quo hasn't changed.  "There's no baby in your belly, mommy.  Baby's all gone.  Baby died."  I confirm it, and let her sweep me into the moment, into her child's world, with whatever she's got lined up next.