One morning last week, my four-year-old granddaughter and I were at the breakfast table talking about family.

“Who is your mommy?” she asked.

“Grandma Barbara is my mommy.”

“I have a Grandma Barbara, too.”

“I know; she’s my mommy.”

“Who’s your grandma?” she asked.

“I don’t have a grandma.”

“Everyone has a grandma. You have to have a grandma.”

I hesitated. Then remembering her parents tell her thunder is angels playing in heaven, I replied, “My grandma is in heaven.”

Solemnly, she asked, “Did she die?”

“Yes,” I replied, “but she lived a good, long life.”

“I’m going to die,” she said. “I don’t want to die.”

“Sweetheart,” I said to her, “you’re going to live for a very long time.”

Concerned, she held up ten fingers. “I want to have this many birthdays before I die.”

“Oh, you’re going to have lot more birthdays than that,” I told her. “I have a birthday coming up soon and, watch carefully, I’m going to be this many.” I held up ten fingers and then again and then again and so on. “And I’m not going to die for a very long time. So you don’t have anything to worry about.”

I hugged her and asked, “OK?”

“OK,” she replied and went back to her breakfast.

In life with kids, moments just happen. You do your best; you think on your feet. I was grateful that keeping it simple seemed to work this time. I’d rather leave the heavy lifting to her parents.

After all, that’s their job, not mine. My grandkids will tell you they’re taught no bumps, no bruises, no blood on Nana’s watch. We clearly need to amend that to include no tough questions!

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