CW: themes of death, childhood death, anxiety

It’s no secret I’m a night owl, always have been. There hasn’t been a moment in my life when I’ve felt the natural pull to rest my weary head at a decent hour. My least favorite quote? “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” Dumb (okay, not dumb…maybe I’m just jealous?).

Anyway, it was late one night a few weeks ago when I was lying in bed, sipping a glass of Pinot, reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle when the craving hit — I wanted (no, needed) a thick-ass, juicy, oatmeal-stuffed white chocolate chip cranberry cookie. Why? I don’t know. Sometimes the urge just hits, you know? Uh, no, I’m not pregnant…I just enjoy a good cookie like any decent human should during these times.

So, like the boss I am (not really…), I pulled up good ol’ Google and searched for “the best white chocolate chip cranberry oatmeal cookie ever.” If you’re pining for the recipe, you can find it here — but I hope you’ll keep reading, you know…just for kicks.

The kids almost always want to help with cookie making (or at least, cookie tasting). To be honest, same. I’m all in for cookie dough, all the time. This last time we made cookies, my heart was pulled, tugged at the conversation we shared as the mixer thrump-thrump-thrumped together the egg, flour, sugar, and chocolate chips.

“Mommy, how can I not die?” Molly asked me while munching on a mouthful of white chocolate chips. My breath caught in my chest. Not because I’m uncomfortable with the question — it’s something I’ve had years to grapple with myself. But it’s something tender, life-altering for little ones (and big ones, to be honest) and damn…I really want to do this right, you know?

My first brush with death was the funeral of the third grade brother of a classmate of mine when we were in first grade. His name was Brandon. He had leukemia. I remember that being the first moment I realized the finality of death. That life is finite, delicate. That even children could die. That any one of us…that *I* could die at any moment. It wrecked me — I can only imagine the lifelong pain, emptiness that his family has experienced…continue to experience…well, that’s grief for you.

It wrecked me because no one really wants to talk about it…death, I mean. It’s one of those traditionally taboo subjects; something to ignore, brush over. In fact, humans are so uncomfortable with death that they’ve whipped up entire world-religions in an effort to repel death for the idea of life eternal (but that’s a story for another time, moody mortals).

A few years after Brandon’s death, my sister began to show symptoms of leukemia. I remember her screaming on the examination table…tubes out of her nose and arms, the doctor whispering the possibility to my parents, my quiet understanding wrapped in a hazy cloud of fear. Fortunately, her symptoms were caused by an allergic reaction to a medication (a medication that one of our children also happens to have a reaction to and was also terrifying to diagnose). Anyway, after that, I was done.

Anxiety. It is a fucking beast.

And it has its effects. Around that time, I became obsessed with body-checking, hiding illness, doing whatever I could to avoid going to a doctor (again, more on that another time but I *totally* went to the circus with strep at nine years old…). Leaving things unspoken? Well, sometimes it leads to fear of the unknown instead of acceptance of the unknown.

“Mommy, how can I not die?” Molly asked me, chocolate dripping down her still chubby chin.

I smiled back, tickling her exposed belly. “Sweetie, everything dies. Every living thing dies, someday.”

“Everything?” Molly pined, eyes bulging.

“Yes, love.”

Molly considered, “even you?”

“Yes, little one,” a little squeeze, “even me, one day.”

Molly considered this, with a frown.

“I don’t *want* you to die….*I* don’t want to die!”

At that moment, I leapt back into my head, hoping for something, *anything* that would be a better response than a smile, a pat on the back, and silence. Instead, I took a deep breath and gave her a long, deep hug.

“Remember when our bunny died? It was so sad. We wrapped him in a blanket, dug a little hole in the earth, and put him to bed. It snowed, it rained, it hailed, and the sun came out to warm the earth. Then, grass and baby flowers sprouted over his bed in the spring. It’s okay to feel a lot of things about death. But the cool thing is that we all get to be part of the most beautiful parts of the earth after we die.”

Molly looked up at me, a smudge of chocolate on her chin, “so we get to be flowers someday?”

“Yep. It’s part of the magic of living. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Mmhmm,” she reached a fist into the bag of chocolate chips, stepped off the stool, and skipped off to play in the dining room — drawing the sweetest picture of her in my belly (with a turtle for good measure).

Out of the mouths of babes and cranberry oatmeal cookies, am I right? Some conversations are easy – some are difficult – and we may never know if we “get it right.” But, don’t be afraid to have them — you’ll be surprised at the truly meaningful growth that can happen over a batch of cookies and questions from little mouths.

Until next time, moody mortals. Peace, love, & magick.

Want another delicious cookie recipe? Check out my Little White Witch cookie recipe!