Regrettor Mortis

One of the things I love best about fall is the gentle breeze that flows through the open windows of our house.  This also invited in an seemingly intoxicated fly that dive-bombed us and pestered Cael yesterday as he ate his lunch.  I swatted it and opened another whole can of worms.

"Mommy, is that fly dead?"

"Yep, I got him."

"Why is he dead?"

"Because he's very tiny and the swatter smacked him pretty hard.  There isn't really another way to get the flies out, Cael."

"I wish Oscar was dead."

"What!?  Why would you say that?"

"Because he keeps licking my toes and I don't like it.  Hit him with the swatter and make him go away."

"If you don't like what he's doing, you should just tell him to stop or ask me for help."

And I should have left it that.  There have been a great deal of defining moments in parenthood where I could have (and should have) shut my mouth.  But did I?  In the spirit of trying to help my son better understand something that no one can really understand, I figuratively removed my shoe so that I could shove my foot further into my mouth.

"Plus, Cael, when an animal is dead, you don't get to see them anymore.  Their body doesn't work and they aren't with us because they are in heaven." 

Immediate regret. 

"WHAT?  WHY NOT?"

"Well, that's how death works.  But the good thing is that Oscar is going to be with us for a long time."

"When is he going to die?"

"I don't know exactly, honey, but it's not something you need to worry about.  And when he dies he will get to go to heaven, and heaven is SO amazing!"

"What is it like?"

"Well, God lives in heaven so it's really beautiful.  And everyone is happy because there is nothing to be sad about."

Turning to the dog, Cael had a change of heart. 

"Oscar!  You want to go to heaven?!"

Oscar danced around like he was performing for a treat.  Too bad the treat Cael had in mind was laced with arsenic in the name of sending the dog to heaven. 

The dog probably wouldn't wind up there anyway.  I know what he's been up to.

"Hold on, Cael.  We don't get to decide when we get to go to heaven.  Only God can decide."

"Can you call him and ask?"

"You can talk to God in your prayers, but you can't call him on the phone."

"Oh."

Cael got down from the table and ran out of the room.  I was so relieved that the conversation was a twisted death threat rather than an explosion of tears and drama.  I didn't want to scare him, but I also didn't want to walk in on Cael cramming his Thomas the Train t-shirt down our cat's throat. 

Fizzling fireboxes, that would be bad news.

When Cael woke up from his not-so-heavenly 38 minute nap, he launched into a grocery store fantasy that Graham was happy to join after his nap as well.  I was folding some laundry upstairs but could hear the two of them arguing over toys and battling for control of the grocery scanner.  Cael had been hoarding most of Graham's birthday loot and--

--CRACK!!

"I swatted you, Graham."

"No!"

"I got you dead.  You go away now."  (Please don't call CPS.)

"No!"  Graham protested.

"Say 'Hi' to God, Graham!"

I'll just file this one under "Parenting Missteps"...