I didn't realize that when we got to this page he was wincing. It seemed like a fairly benign rif on the King Midas story. His best friend turned into cheese. I am not giving anything away by telling you that Tweet, the bird, was restored to his birdlike ways. Happy ending. I bundled up the kids with last kisses and shuffled them off to bed.
We cuddled, nose to nose. His tears dribbled onto my cheek. I walked him through the story, told him that after bad moments comes good moments. He was not appeased. Still struggling to breathe, he sputtered out, "I just keep thinking of you...your mom...how you would feel..." His voice devolved into muffled cries. I held him tight, told him how after losing my mom I finally got to get this wonderful life now.
I also wanted to say that I was cuddled, loved, listened to, that I was held close in the hearts of those who were left behind. I just didn't want to lie. Parenting when your own childhood was a litany of traumas tears at your soul. Fills you with guilt, makes you think by sharing bits of your life you are fraying the innocence of your sweet babes. Where's the road map to navigate through this land mine?