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Guess Colin’s most frequently asked question of late:

A. Can I have some candy?
B. What time can I watch The Magic School Bus?
C. What does that big yellow M stand for?
D. What happens when we die?

If you answered D: What happens when we die? you get the grand prize.

Today I dragged him to Santa Maria to see SteveSongs perform live in concert. While all the preschoolers around us danced and sang and generally acted cute to the extreme, Colin did not. Eventually, he asked over the music, crying, “before we die, do we go to the doctor?” It was time to go.

This isn’t a new question – it’s a regular need for him to discuss his fears around dying – except he’s never brought the doctor into it until today. His interest in knowing there’s a doctor who’s going to help us before we die tells me that his little boy brain is looking deeper for answers, looking for more specific reassurance.

We talk about it, I ask him questions, I tell him my perspective. In one of our conversations, I asked him where he thinks Uncle Andrei is. He answered, crying, “HE’S IN A BOX!” It’s true. When we visit Grandma, he sometimes pays Uncle Andrei a visit, checking out his ashes, blowing out the candle next to the box.

We’ve visited Cousin Baby Aiden at the cemetery. He’s in a box, too, but underground. This is way too much, me thinks, for a 4-year-old to deal with – within the context of a culture that doesn’t acknowledge death, that doesn’t talk about death. He’s just not sure where to put all the death in the family into his picture of the world. And it didn’t help that there was marital strife to the extreme and a terrifying fire last year.

He’s trying to piece together ideas that most adults can’t wrap their hearts and brains around. He’s too young to understand the concept of time, for crying out loud, let alone something as big and uncertain and beautiful/horrific as dying is.

Stefan and I pop Lexapro and see a therapist and think it’s all good. Maybe it’s time to bring in some outside help for our little guy.