A little hung up on death

I don't remember thinking about dying much when I was a kid. Perhaps I did, but it certainly wasn't consuming and I don't equate the questioning to my childhood memories. Unlike my own kids. Oy.

We took them to a couple of funerals in January of this past year and both were kind of high-stress occasions, in my book. Not only were they a long drive away, but we stayed with some of my husbands' family who I didn't really know before then and both funerals meant lots of in-law time.

Both funerals involved people taking snapshots of the corpses. Both involved all kinds of interesting behavior that, of course, the kids questioned us on incessantly.

Fast forward to today and they still mention death offhandedly nearly every day. Just last weekend, I was sitting at home with Lillian, who was recovering from a recent tonsilectomy. As I folded and folded and folded laundry, I sighed and said, "When will I ever be done with folding laundry?" She matter-of-factly replied, "Don't worry, Mom. You won't have to fold anymore once you're dead." So true, I hope.

At bedtime last night, I tucked Breanna into bed like a little burrito and kissed her goodnight. She said, "I love you, Mom. I hope you don't die tonight so I can see you in the morning."

Boy, I hope they're not going to be traumatized into weirdos as they grow up. I guess we'll just have to wait and see. Although, I do hear there is good money and no such thing as a recession in the funeral business, so perhaps this might turn out ok.