Isn’t It the Best Day of His Life?

In 2005, when Pope John Paul II died, Frank was about to turn six. We were still living in California then, and Frank went to a private Lutheran school. We were watching the news and there was coverage of people outside the Vatican mourning, some were crying.

We are not Catholic, so Frank did not have an understanding of what the pope represented, and thus, didn’t understand the mourners’ reactions.

He said, "Mom, I don’t understand why these people are crying."
"They’re sad because the pope died and in their religion, he is a very important person, some might consider him like a father, that’s why they’re sad," I answered.
"That’s the part I don’t understand."
I didn’t know how else to explain it to him, so I was quiet for a few seconds, trying to come up with another way of looking at it.
Then he said, "I mean, it’s gotta be the best day of his life, right? He gets to go to heaven."
Then I understood his confusion.

After we moved to Colorado, my mom called to say her dog had passed away. I was very sad when she told me, more for her because she was alone in California, and I knew how hard the loss of her pet would be. 

Again, Frank asked me about my reaction, and again I tried to explain. It was long enough after the pope incident that I had forgotten that particular conversation. So when he said, "Geez Mom, can you imagine what dog heaven must be like?" it brought a smile to my face. 

There was something on Facebook this morning, a similar story, that reminded me of these two occurances in Frank's life. And even if I’ve written about them before, I wanted to again. 

At the beginning of every year, we tackle another cleaning out/reorganization project. This year we got rid of the dreaded stuffed animal bin, which meant letting the boys choose one or two to keep in their childhood memory bins. Frank chose his monkeys. 

We had two identical stuffed monkeys for him. Something I read in a parenting article somewhere suggested having a back up for a beloved blanket/stuffed animal/security item, so you could wash the original occasionally or so there wasn’t utter devastation when the original was lost. 

We bought the backup and hid it away in Frank’s closet. He was probably around two years old when he discovered it. I distinctly remember that day and his reaction. His eyes got very big, he got a huge smile on his face, and in awe he said, "two munkins!" He held one in each arm and cuddled them against him. From that day on, he carried around both, although when we traveled he was only allowed to bring one along.

I told Frank that story when we were putting his bins back under his bed, expecting him to think it was silly, but instead he whispered, "two munkins," smiled and looked at me. Precious mom moment.