One of Jon and my most effective parenting strategies is playing it cool. It’s not always easy. Sometimes we are, in fact, freaking out inside, but it’s kind of like that classic example where your kid falls and they’re not really hurt but their response modulates depending on your response. If you freak, they wail louder. If you respond calmly, they move on to the next thing quickly.

Yesterday was my uncle’s wake and midday one of my cousins thoughtfully called to let me know it would be open casket. And it occurred to me that I sort of assumed it would be (my family traditionally has opted for open casket funerals) but it hadn’t even dawned on me how to approach it with Laurel.

I was perplexed. I floated Jon an e-mail to ask him to think about it on the train ride home and otherwise turned to Twitter, where most folks recommended either not taking Laurel to the wake or taking her but steering clear of the casket. Which I totally get.

But it also made me wonder whether the open casket thing (and no doubt death in general) is more of a big deal for grownups than kids. I went to open casket funerals as a child and it didn’t phase me at all – possibly due to the fact that my parents had seven kids and they didn’t have time to make a big fuss about it with each of us, and partly because that was just the way it was. Very matter of fact.

So Jon and I decided that — as with many things in life related to Laurel — we would try to communicate calmly, not make a huge deal about it, and give her choice. So in the car, the conversation went something like this:

Jon: “Laurel, we need to talk to you about the funeral.” [We didn’t bother complicating things by introducing the wake terminology.]

Laurel: “OK, Daddy, what is it?”

Jon: “Well, we’re going to a funeral, which is a time for people to say goodbye and send good wishes to the person who has died, and also give support to the family members.”

Laurel: “I know that, Daddy.”

Jon: “Well, the thing we wanted to tell you is that sometimes at funerals there’s a casket, which is a fancy box used to hold a person’s body when it goes to the cemetery.”

Christine: “Like Snow White, except hers was glass on top.”

Laurel: “Right, Snow White. There was glass on top so the Prince could see her inside.”

Jon: “Um, right. So anyway, the casket will be open at this funeral and Uncle’s body will be in it – but at this point he’s just a body, his spirit left his body earlier this week when he died. Does that make sense?”

Laurel: “Yes.”

Jon: “People will walk up to the casket to say goodbye to Uncle, but it’s totally up to you if you want to do it. You can go up, or you don’t have to. Either way is OK and you can decide there.”

Laurel: “I want to see Uncle in the casket. [Pause] Hey, did I tell you about this game we played in gym class today? The teacher split us up into teams of seven and…[long monologue about gym class ensues...]”

So there you have it. We were calm and matter of fact and Laurel was calm and matter of fact right back.

When we got to the wake Laurel was a bit shy at first, then extremely excited to see her aunts and uncles and cousins (and not surprisingly disinterested in all of the strangers who wanted to pinch her cheeks and tell her how tall she was). She liked going through the receiving line (she went 4 times I think) and loved all of the huge flower displays.

And yes, she visited the casket. Five or six times. She was not scared or freaked out at all; she was curious…about how they got my Uncle dressed, about whether those were his real clothes, about why the bottom half of the casket top was closed, about why there was a huge flower display on top of the closed part of the casket, etc.

On the last casket visit, I asked Laurel if she wanted to say goodbye to him. She did. It was short, sweet, and simple.

And I think Laurel’s calm and cheerful response affected me as well. I said my goodbyes, sent my Uncle and his family peaceful and happy wishes moving forward in life and the universe, felt grateful for my life and the people in it, and left — dry eyed and with a light heart.

One of the awesome things about kids is that they can pull you out of a funk (or two) in about 5 seconds flat.

Yesterday Laurel and I were curled up together on the couch; she was cuddled against me working on an activity book and I was typing in a Word doc on my laptop. She reached over and started pecking at keys, giggling away, which immediately made me feel lighthearted.

So I said, “Hang on, let me write you a message!” Laurel’s reading has taken off amazingly, so I tried to think of something funny for her to read. I wrote:

My daughter Laurel is the sweetest banana I know. Sometimes I want to put peanut butter on her little button nose and eat it!

Which she thought was hilarious. She moved my laptop onto her lap and pecked out:

Youooooooooooooooooo are graettttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt
tttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt
ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt
tttttttttttttttt!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

She can never be faulted for lack of enthusiasm. I responded:

I like checking in on Laurel at night. Sometimes when I walk up to her bed I bump into her feet. Other times I bump into her head. She likes to sleep sideways in her bed.

Again, maniacal giggling. Her response?

My mom is a zebra. i am too. i like to be in the zoo. i think that she does too.

Oh my God, my kid is brilliant.

I, on the other hand, was hungry:

Wow, I am hungry for a burrito. Are you Laurel? I hope Daddy comes home soon so we can go get burritos.

To which she responded:

Sjjjjjjjrjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjfkjfhelkeljrrlnfc I want to.,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

We clearly were losing it. I shut down the laptop, we snuggled some more, then got ready to go out for burritos.

These are the simple moments that bring such light and joy.

And yes, you read the title of this post correctly. I remain clueless about texting.

I’ve always described my parents as traditional or old-fashioned in outlook, particularly when it came to matters of courting (what the hell, I’ll follow suit in terminology). After my first (super toxic) serious relationship (which I completely hid from my parents for three years, knowing the disapproval was guaranteed), I found it rather frustrating that my parents marked my next (way more healthy) serious relationship down for matters that were largely out of his control (his parents were divorced, the family was somewhat fragmented and liked to drink a lot, etc.). When Jon and I started dating, I had mixed feelings about their blissful approval. Not only did they like Jon as a person, but they liked that he was smart and accomplished (salutatorian of his high school class even), and just as importantly to them, they adored his parents, who were still married, deeply connected to their parents, and even “people of God” (both are ordained ministers).

I used to think all of this was ridiculous. Then somewhere along the line, I started to see their perspective; that a marriage isn’t just about a marrying of two people, it’s a marrying of families. This concept became clearer to me in different moments, such as when I heard the elation in my parents’ voices when they got together with Jon’s parents without us present. Or when Jon’s parents came to my father’s funeral and stood by my family as we knelt graveside, sobbing and throwing roses on my dad’s casket. Or in countless small and large moments during which I have experienced laughter, kindness, and generosity with Jon’s extended family.

On Saturday, Jon and I went to the funeral of the father of our dear friend Michael and I was moved on several levels. First, I love Michael and his wife Anne immensely; they’re the kind of friends who I wish lived next door yet they currently live on the other side of the world. Second, as someone who hasn’t yet found inspiration in the ritual of church, I felt that the priest’s remembrance of Michael’s father was incredibly moving, humorous, and down to earth. Third, I couldn’t help but be a little overwhelmed by the parallels in circumstance; my father and Michael’s father experienced a similar downward trajectory in health, were tended to by devoted and mindboggling-ly optimistic women, had many children, and died at the same age. Despite being quieted in their late years by their illnesses, both remained strong, unifying roots for their respective families.

And finally, I was moved by the cohesiveness of Anne and Michael’s families. Though complex and multidimensional and fragmented in places like many families, the presence of all of these people made clear how devoted and unified they are. So much so that it occurred to me that I often don’t even think of the various family members as belonging to one side or another. Seeing them together in that moment added a data point in favor of my parent’s perspective about marriage and families.

On a related note, early this morning my uncle – my dad’s brother – died. I was glad I had a chance to see him last week and also catch up with my cousins. And once again, I was struck by the parallels – the round the clock vigils, the weary but spirited demeanor of my cousins and aunt, the hospital room (which, strangely enough, was the same hospital room my dad resided in), and the amazing way the family — and their families by marriage — rallied on my uncle’s behalf.

There will be another funeral to attend soon, but these thoughts are the ones that bring me peace and help me remember the joy; not only the joy of the individual, but of all the people that one person has the power to touch and unify.