Mortality Issues

Matt has been having bad dreams. Specifically, he has been dreaming that either Ryan or I die nearly every night. Poor little guy. I'm guessing the reality of mortality has taken hold in his 7-year-old brain. That's a tough concept for anyone, but especially a little guy who loves life as much as he.

He likes to tell me about those dreams, and I have to say, I really enjoy it. I mean, if you have to go, he has some great ideas on how to do it. One night, Ryan died from going out into space (he just flew up there and couldn't get back). Last night, I was riding my motorcycle and fell into a puddle and died.

"A puddle?" I said. "I drowned in a puddle?"
"Yeah," he said. "You were splashing around and it was, like, 100 feet deep."
"Well, puddles can't be that deep."
"Okay, it wasn't a puddle. It was, um, some deep water. And, mom, you DIED."
"But I can swim. I wouldn't die in a puddle. It's okay. It couldn't happen."
"But it already did. You were splashing like this (add your own vision of Matt flailing his arms) and then you disappeared and died."
"Well, okay. I promise I won't go into any puddles while I'm riding my motorcycle so that it can't happen again."
"Okay, mom."

And on it goes.

This was a morning hot tub conversation, and Emily sat quietly while we hashed it out. What was going through her mind? I have no idea. She didn't seem to think Matt was silly; she had a serious, pensive look on her face. It breaks my heart to think that she has had such dream but was too afraid to talk about it. (Doesn't telling things like that increase the possibility that they might happen?)

I knew a little girl like that once. I remember lying in bed shaking, afraid of dying, afraid of my parents dying, afraid of my dog dying. Why did everything have to die? If I could, I would take all of that fear away from my kids and carry it for them throughout their childhood. Then, when they were old enough, I would gently hand it back to them. It's tough enough to be a kid today...

Matt had another dream.

"That bad guy was here, pounding a hole in our roof."
"What bad guy?" I asked.
"You know, the one you told us about...the one who lives in another state and he killed a whole bunch of people."
"Another country," Emily corrected. "He lives in another country."
"Bin Laden," I said. They were referring to my convoluted explanation of what happened on 9/11 (both had too young to understand at the time...).
"Yeah, him. He was on the roof, and he pounded and pounded and the roof fell in and crushed dad, and dad died."

Sigh.

If there were no Bin Laden or the millions of other bad guys that rape and pillage and plunder and bomb and destroy our happiness, would we still have bad dreams? Sure. But I know this: I would much rather have my kids dream that I died by going up into a space ship than from a terrorist beating on my roof. Wouldn't you?