Death

Before kids I was fearless - I did a skydive from 13,000 feet, a zip wire from Blackpool pier, a bunji swing, would go on every ride at the fairground that would spin me upside down until my shoulders were bruised from the harness, I tried fire eating at university and drove my car past 100mph. I would walk home alone from a night out at 4am, I ran shifts at a bar where I had to kick out the drunks at closing time and didn't flinch when I was threatened with a pool cue.

After kids I hold onto the handrail when I walk down stairs, I test my smoke alarms every week, I enjoy watching the kids on the teacups, turn everything off at the plug socket in case of a power surge and regularly check the oil, water and brake fluid in my car. I keep blankets in bags in case of emergency, live 100 yards from a hospital and have life insurance. I share taxis home and run away from conflict.

I've suddenly discovered my own mortality and I'm petrified of dying as I worry about what will happen to the kids if Dad was their sole carer. They'd be washed once a month, Ava would still be in nappies at the age of 12, their teeth would fall out and they'd be sucking their daily intake of waffles. The only books that Dad has read include "The Twits" and Gavin Henson's autobiography, so I can't see him teaching the Gremlins about Peter and Jane, though they may learn how to glue the furniture to the ceiling. Self-preservation has never been so important.

In addition, Owen has developed a rampant curiosity of death and enjoys bombarding us with difficult-to-answer questions or morbid observations. For example -

Owen: Mammy am I going to die?
Mam: (long pause) Everyone will die some time sweetheart.
Owen: What time will you die?
Mam: Nobody really knows when they'll die.
Owen: Will you die tomorrow?
Mam: I hope not.
Owen: When I'm a grown up will you die?
Mam: Hopefully not until you're very old and you can look after yourself.
Owen: When I'm a grown up, how many sleeps will it be until you die?
Mam: Too many to count.
Owen: I don't want you to die.
(Uh....sound of my heart breaking!)

A few hours later we get a telephone call from Welsh Gransha. Apparently Owen phoned him and asked him when he was going to die - he was worried that we knew something he didn't. What on earth do you tell a five year old about death??? I don't want to lie to him but I don't want to scare him either. For example -

(Driving past a graveyard)
Owen: Mammy that's where people go after they die - I don't want to go in the ground I want to go to Heaven.
Mam: Those people will be in Heaven babe.
Owen: How can they be in Heaven and be underground?
Mam: Well you are like a tortoise. Your body is your shell and you are inside of that shell. When you die, your shell sometimes goes in the ground and you go to Heaven. Sometimes people's bodies get burnt in a fire instead...

WHOOPS!!! Cue ten minutes of a screaming five year old begging not to be burnt in a fire!

A few days later there were further questions about Heaven...

Owen: What's Heaven like?
Mam: Heaven is the best place ever! It has all of the things that you love and there'll be people there to take care of you.
Owen: If my body is in the ground, how will I walk? Can I take my legs to Heaven?
Mam: You'll have a new body and new legs
Owen: But I like these legs. Can I take these legs?
Mam: Errrmmmm.....
Owen: Can I take my head?
Mam: You won't need it, you'll have a new head.
Owen: What about my arms?
Mam: You'll have new arms too.
Owen: Will there be rides in Heaven?
Mam: Oh yes. Loads of rides.
Owen: I'd rather go to Flamingo Land.

A few days later...

Owen: When Daddy dies can we get a hamster?
Mam: No but we can buy a house!!!

Recently, however, he seems to have come to terms with the topic of death -

Owen: Mammy are you older than Daddy?
Mam: Yes
Owen: YESSSSS!!!!
Mam: Why?
Owen: Because if you're older then you'll die first and then I can play with Daddy (sad face) I'll miss you.

Ava is now my favourite child - and now Owen uses death as a form of emotional blackmail -

Owen: Maaaam get me some raisins or I'll kill myself!

Sorry honey, I don't negotiate with toddlerists.

SO...death. I'm scared of it. Dad doesn't acknowledge it (Ebay and Amazon are much more important topics of conversation) and Owen is obsessed with it. He gapes at graveyards with unanswered questions and searches the clouds for people sitting on them. He makes me address things that I don't want to think about. As a result I've planned my funeral and have a living will. Both myself and Dad have had full medicals and I keep checking my boobs for lumps (and Dad offers to help). Living seems so much more important now and I take so many pictures to make memories with, that my kids now say "cheese" at the end of every sentence. I stare at the kids every night when they sleep in case there's no tomorrow and I feel like I'm always prepared for the worst.

In the meantime, Dad and Ava will remain merrily oblivious and Owen will continue to plan the death of all of his future pets and the new pets he'll get after each funeral, whilst counting down the sleeps till he's an orphan. O happy days!