I have avoided the topic of death when interacting with Swee’Pea and TheMonk as much as possible.  I’m trying to decide if that’s called smart parenting or me being a wuss.

Anyway, any time we see something that used to be alive (a dead bug, a dried up worm, Lindsay Lohan’s career) Swee’Pea and TheMonk are quick to point it out.  “What’s that, Daddy?” they’ll ask.

“Uh… Um… Hey, was that Dora over there?” Is usually my reply.

I guess I’m just not ready to challenge the innocence of childhood quite yet.

But somehow, somewhere, my kids have been introduced to the concept of death. (My money’s on those little hooligans at daycare.)  This became evident this week when we backed out of our driveway and the kids turned their attention to the snail that has been sitting on the wall of our neighbor’s garage ever since it hit mid-90s last week.  “There’s the snail, Daddy!” announced TheMonk as we passed the dried out remnants of the Gastropod.

“Yep.  There it is, Buddy.  Say bye-bye to the snail.” I reply as I continue to back out our very long driveway.

Then, out of the blue, Swee’Pea adds, “I think the snail dieded.”

“Yeah.” says TheMonk somberly. “The snail dieded.”

My mind races… How do I respond to this?  What do I say?  How can I torture the little punks at daycare who are polluting my children’s innocence with their talk of dead things?

Time stands still.  I have to say something, though, as the silence is deafening.  They are waiting for my words of wisdom.  They need reassurance from a strong parental figure that while death happens all around us, they will be safe and shouldn’t fear what we can’t control.  I need to wrap them in my parental cloak of love and tell them that everything will be okay.

So, I clear my throat, wet my lips, and say…

“HEY! ISN’T THAT DORA?!”