“Nana has died.”
My partner got these three words out before he started to cry. Again.
My daughter, who is six, went immediately to her dad, and cuddled him. Since she was a tiny baby, someone has held her when she cries, so she knew what to do.
My son, who is four, was reading the signals. Clearly, this was serious, possibly not the time to ask if we were still going on holiday tomorrow, or to ask if he was still getting ice-cream tonight. I could see him processing.
“But when does Nana stop dying?” He asked. “When does she stop being dead?”
Hear Holly and Andrew Daddo talking about talking to kids about grief on the This Glorious Mess podcast, here:
How do you teach children about grief? For many families, the conversation starts around a beloved family pet. Poems are recited over a goldfish in a matchbox, or a hamster under the freshly-turned mound under the lemon tree.
There was no such warm up in our house.
My mother-in-law Julie Shelley was an extraordinary woman. Of course, we all say that about people when they’re gone, but it’s certainly true, I promise.
Despite a life that had its share of dark moments, Julie was full of light.
She was the life of any party; hungry for people’s stories, always up for a chat, a glass, a cuppa, a hug. She was a woman not defined by her generation or her time, but one who fully embraced the diversity of her modern family.
I wanted the kids to go to Julie’s funeral. I wanted them to say goodbye to the woman who thought about them every day. Who baked deliciously, tacky rotating-doll cakes for them, and insisted on paying for their first school uniforms, who kept a box of toys and pens and colouring books in the house she shared with their uncles, so kids would never be bored in their grown-up home.