A Great Conversation About Death...

During the entire "event" I had my inner voice saying stuff like,   

(Oh crap, should I be doing this? Will he become a psychopath?)

 or 

(Hoooh Boy, maybe I should have lied and told him the bird was just sleeping?) 

But no, I cannot tell a lie...and I think I did the right thing.

We were playing in the backyard when Stan B shouts, "Move! Move, Mama!" (That is his way of saying, "Get off your ass and come here, Mama!") But this time it sounded super urgent so I ran over to where the basil and green onions are planted and there was this medium sized bird with blackish grey feathers lying still on top of the dry dirt. Then I saw a yellow jacket fly out from under it's head. Ugh. So I said, "It's a bird. Look at it's feathers, isn't it beautiful? Now, come with me." While I walked over to get the shovel, with Stan B at my heels, I was thinking,

(Do I bury it and involve him? I think so. I think that's what I should do.) 

So I did. I said to him, "We are going to dig a hole in the ground for the bird and we are going to bury it. The bird has died. It is dead."  

(OH MY GOODNESS DID I JUST SAY THE WORD "DEAD" IN FRONT OF MY 2 YEAR OLD?!) 

But I dig. While I dig I explain that we want the hole big enough to place the bird inside. I'm all facts and no emotion because I'm second guessing myself the entire time. Then we walk back to the bird and I lift it up with my shovel and we see that it has a speckled red and black chest. I think it was a fledgling robin. I say, "What a pretty bird."

(He probably doesn't even understand the word dead or death or dying....how do I even explain this?!)

 Which makes me think of our conversation from the other week but for some reason, although still tough, it seems easier to talk about it in terms of this bird.  So I say, "The bird is no longer alive...it can't fly, or eat anymore, that is why we are going to give it a burial." I place the bird in the hole and then I realize I am going to have to cover it up with dirt...I realize that covering it up with earth might seem scary and wrong to my sweet boy...so I do it gently and slowly while talking. I tell him that the bird is not breathing anymore. I breath loudly so he understands what breathing means. I tell him again that the bird can no longer fly and that it is dead. Stan B says, "Birdy, owie." "Yes, Birdy had an owie. Maybe a cat or another bird or maybe something natural caused it's death but it no longer hurts. It's o.k. now." Stan B says, "Better." "Yes, it is no longer suffering." Then he says, "Compost." I am amazed...I wish I could step inside his brain and experience what goes on in there because he links so many things together. I say, "Yes, kind of like compost. Just like how we put our food scraps in the compost pile and they decompose and break down into wonderful soil the bird will break down and all that will be left is it's skeleton - it's bones."  

(HOLY MOLY...now I have to explain a skeleton.)

So I say, "We have bones. You can feel your finger bone. Here, feel mine." He feels it and says nothing but I can tell he is really paying attention and thinking about things. Once the bird is completely covered he says, "Uh-oh!" Of course I panic again thinking,  

(What have I done!)

but instead I say, "We only bury things that have died. The birdy cannot breath or fly anymore. Let's put a stick here so we know where we buried it." Stanley liked that idea very much. "Let's go get some flowers to honor the bird." So we go to the rose bush and pick a rose. We go to the flowering mint and pick a few sprigs of the intoxicating mint. We bring them back to the grave and I place mint near the stick. Stan B puts the rose near the mint. He says, "Birdy sleeping." "Well, it looked like it was sleeping but it will never wake up."  

(EGADS!)

"Everything is constantly changing." I notice that the rose is starting to wilt and turn brown on one side so I say, "Nothing lasts forever, just like the bird, this flower is starting to wilt and turn brown, see?" Then he grabs another stick and puts it into the ground near my stick. Then I suggest that we get rocks to place on top. So we gather rocks and put them around and make a couple of rows. When we go back for more rocks he says, "Alley rocks. Little rocks." So we go to the alley behind the house where there is a dirt road and gather some of the gravel and bring it back and fill in the rest of the plot with these small rocks, which I think was a brilliant idea. We sit there a little bit longer and he puts his hands up but toward the grave and says, "Birdy, all gone." "Yes, birdy all gone." It seemed so matter of fact and strange yet wonderful so I said, "Most times, when something dies people will cry and be sad so having a burial and grave is helpful." "All gone." "All gone." And then he does the sweetest thing, I didn't even ask him to do it. He leans in towards the grave and kisses the air right above the rocks. "Bye Birdy. All gone." ...That's when I knew I did the right thing.