No. It wasn’t about sex.
It was about death.
A few months ago, I wrote about my then almost 4 year old daughter asking about her grandfather – my dad – who died years ago.
She seemed to be happy with the answers I gave her, then.
Recently, she started talking about getting a cat. We had a cat but we had to put Fidget down when N was still a baby. I don’t think she really remembers her except for the photos that we have about.
“Do you remember Fidget?” I asked her.
“Yes, Fidget. Our cat. We had a cat named Fidget.”
“No. Where is she?”
“She died. She got sick and died.”
“Oh. Like Grandpa?”
“Yes, like Grandpa.”
And then I saw it: the wheels turning.
“Could I die?”
My stomach dropped to my toes. “Could you die?” she then asked, a growing look of concern spreading across her face, the little frown wrinkles in the middle of her forehead forming though not yet leaving a permanent line. Yet.
I knew I should tell the truth: that we all die. That it is the way of life. But I couldn’t do it.
“Not for a very, very long time. I don’t want you to worry about it.”
She still looked worried.
But she moved on. For now.