Taylor was feeling morbid on Saturday. That might have been because Maya brought a nasty stomach bug home from daycare on Friday afternoon and by 9pm we had all perfected the art of the technicolor yawn, choreographing our hurling in such a way that five people alternated between three toilets without missing the bowl even once. It was the fucking Nutcracker Ballet of vomit sessions, people.
Let me just pause here to say that on Saturday afternoon, I found out that we have the best dog ever. Our dog is a “service animal”– no, does not mean all the perverted things that “service” implies, which, I know, I’m totally disappointed too– and he works with abused children to help them feel more happy & shiny. So of course he’s a good dog; he’s undergone two full years of intense training and behavior conditioning (that I doubt he ever needed) to become so calm and tolerant that he is basically an 80-pound stuffed animal with a heartbeat. But you guys, I had no idea just how good-natured and easy-going he was until Maya walked up to his face, gave him a hug, and was about to kiss his nose when she VIOLENTLY HURLED ALL OVER HIS FACE. That amazing beast did not even flinch. He just slumped his shoulders in a very Eeyore-esque way and looked at me like, “I did not sign up for this shit.”
So anyway, by Saturday morning we are all just laying around saying things like “UuuugughhgghhgIamgoingtodiiiiiiiiiie”, which is perhaps why Taylor was obsessed with talking about dying. ANYWAY; The point: I’m going to get to it.
I fielded many questions from Taylor about embalming, funerals, toe tags, whether or not pregnant women can die while their fetus lives, and how bullets are extracted from gunshot victims. FYI, the answer to the last one is “like this, Son, so just… don’t get shot”.
Somehow this overly-graphic conversation turned into a discussion called When Is Mom Going To Die?
Taylor: “Mom, will I be eleven when you die?”
Me: “I don’t know for sure, but probably not. I don’t plan on dying in five years.”
Taylor: “Well, when you die, will I get all your stuff?”
Me: “Ummm I guess probably a lot of it, yeah. Why?”
Taylor: “Because you have some cool stuff and I want some of it.”
Me: “Okaaaay, well I’m sure when I eventually die, you’ll get to–”
Taylor: “I REALLY WANT YOUR JACKSON 5 CD WHEN YOU DIE. WHEN I’M ELEVEN. IF YOU DIE WHEN I’M ELEVEN I CAN PLAY IT IN MY CAR ON MY WAY TO HIGH SCHOOL WHICH WILL BE COOL.”
Me: “If I die when you’re eleven, who will take care of you?”
Taylor: “MICHAEL JACKSON.”