Diving in: Understanding Death With My 3-Year-Old

By Annie Mark-Westfall — LETTERS FROM BERLIN

My three-year-old son has been working through the concept of death, lately. For several weeks, he talked about how Grandpa “dived,” which was adorable and comforting, so we never corrected him. Then swimming class started, followed by a newfound fear of going underwater. When my husband did an underwater handstand, our son became apoplectic. We quickly set the record straight about diving vs. dying, and then the harder questions started coming.

Where did Grandpa go when he died?

Last week, I flew solo with the kids back to New York, combining a work trip with a visit to Grandma Bea. My parents drove in from Ohio to help me with the children, and four generations of our family slept under one roof. Relishing the luxury of extra hands, I spent the jet-lagged mornings writing upstairs, listening to the kids shriek with delight over the hot chocolate and cookies they received from my mother, downstairs.

Each day, my son plays a forty-year-old plastic trumpet/kazoo that he dug out of a moldy closet, and talks non-stop. Without really understanding what Halloween is, my son is excited to celebrate it; and I am excited for him to experience American trick-or-treating. We talk about ghosts and Halloween and death, at the whiplash pace reserved…