After school today, my daughter skipped up to her classmate’s grandmother on the playground. This grandmother, “Elaine,” picks up her grandchildren from school several times a week, so she’s a regular fixture on the playground bench. She’s always buried in a book while the kids fly down the slides or shoot hoops. My daughter, who just this month had a breakthrough on reading, has started to feel like she belongs in the world in a new way. Like suddenly having something in common with her friend’s bookworm grandmother.
“What’cha reading,” my girl sang out. Her favorite books are Curious George stories.
“A murder mystery.”
Elaine’s response hung in the air, but I couldn’t tackle it in time. I was seated about fifteen feet away, by the swings, watching my son silently pump his legs back and forth. I whipped my head around to see my daughter’s reaction.
“A what?” she said.
Elaine’s grandchildren ran past, then it got quiet again.
“A murder mystery!” Elaine repeated, louder, as if my daughter were hard of hearing.
“What’s…murder..?” my girl asked.
Oh.my.God, I thought. Noooooooooooooooooooo!!!!
I waited for Elaine to look over at me, to give me the “oh, shit, I’ve really stepped in it, sorry, help me out here!” look. Instead, she elaborated.
“Oh, you know, when someone kills another person, like in a fit of anger. ”
My daughter’s face was blank. The grandmother-cum-thesaurus clarified. “You know, murder. Kill.”
“How…?”
My daughter stood still as stone, her ams rigid at her sides. I stood up. Time to end this, right now. Where were Elaine’s bloody grandkids?
But she was just getting warmed up. “How to murder? Oh, lots of ways! Shoot, stab…” Next came the gestures. Elaine raised her arm over my daughter and brought down an air-sabre towards her head. I almost passed out. I started to run towards them, but my daughter had already jumped high and to the side of Elaine’s descending arm. I watched my nimble girl gallop the long way around the play structure back to her brother and me at the swings. Without looking at me, she hopped on the swing next to him. They had a good long session, side by side. No talking. No fighting.
I watched my kids go back and forth, towards me, then away from me, on the arc of the chains. Do I try to undo what just happened, I wondered, and explain that people don’t just go around murdering each other? My instincts said to wait, that any attempt to reassure my daughter now would only betray my anxiety and add to hers. Just let it lie, said a quiet voice inside me. Then the voice added, “But be ready, bitch, because it’s going to bubble up when you least expect it. You’ll be eating breakfast next week, and…bam! Murder.”
Me and my worry about my daughter rolling with the elementary school kids next year. It turns out it’s the grandmothers you’ve got to watch out for.
Yes – there are the “tell all” grandmothers, as well as the young harassed mother screaming at her VERY active young child (MY child all tuned in to the scene) “Stop ‘at er I’ll KILL you upside the head !” or the fellow waiting room mom w/young child (child picking at a bit of broken plaster there within easy reach) “Stop that or the wall is gonna bite YOU !” How much explanation and how many attempts at undoing can we conjure up to shield as long as we can, our children from our violent world ?
Nerve-wracking, upsetting,and yet…hilarious.You never know where it’s going to come from. Yesterday I had to intervene when my mom started teaching my kids inappropriate lyrics to La Cucaracha. The cockroach was smoking what? What does that mean?….
I totally ‘get it’. I am Pagan and you wouldn’t believe the people who tell my daughter about Christmas and just the other day Easter. Then there’s the nice older guy at the restaurant who tries to give her candy every time we’re there as a reward for eating her breakfast.
Yes, it’s not the kids… it’s their parents, their grandparents, HER grandparents and people behind the scenes.
Another great one… thanks!
Thanks for the understanding, everyone. Kim, your story about religion hits home. We feel strongly about religious tolerance. Our neighbors, not so much. They regularly give our kids benign-looking gifts from the Born Again Bookstore. We’ve learned that hidden inside these presents are often graphic images or descriptions of Christ’s crucifixion. In December, they brought by a cheery illustrated book about the invention of candy canes. When my husband and I pre-screened it, we kept repeating the phrase “wait for it!” as we flipped through the pages. Sure enough, on the last page, the story did a 180-degree subject switch from candy treats to the “agony of Christ’s suffering on the cross.” I understand and deeply respect our neighbors’ religious convictions, but would gladly trade their overtures for a little “live and let live.”
Well, I suppose that was better than learning about it from the news.
Did your daughter ask more questions later on?
So far no more questions…stay tuned.