I recently wrote about how I had been compelled to introduce the concept of death to my son when he was a little over 2 years old, and how he was momentarily devastated by the idea that, in this instance, a little moth he had crushed was now “broken” and not coming back to life.
Well, he’s about to turn 4 now. He and I have birthdays only a week or so apart, and here’s an exchange the two of us had two nights ago before bedtime:
Me: On you’re next birthday, you’re gonna be 4! You know how old I’m gonna be on my next birthday?
Me: 36! That’s pretty old, huh?
Boy (grinning): That means you’re gonna die.
So I guess he’s come to terms with death. That was fast.