All Maggies and Baileys go to heaven.

Before 8 a.m., these things happened:

I was woken up by Danny, who was tapping my shoulder saying, “Excuse me, excuse me, today is my party.  You have to get up.”

After an upsetting call from my Mom, I had to explain to him that when he went over to her house next time, her dog Maggie wouldn’t be there.  The conversation went like this:

Me: You know Maggie, Grammy’s doggie?

Danny: Yes.

Me: Next time you go to Grammy’s house, Maggie won’t be there.

Danny: Did she go to work?

Me: No, she went to heaven.  (You try thinking of what else to say to a four-year old, in love with a dog.)

Danny: What’s heaven?

Me: It’s a place where people and animals go after they die.  It’s very nice, and calm, and everyone gets to see each other. (Like a motherfucking class reunion.  I am so dumb.) Bailey (my dog who has moved to the “other side”) and Maggie are playing together right now.

Danny: I want to go to heaven.  (Right here, I start sweating and having heart palpitations.)

Me: Welllll, you only go there if you’re really sick, and Maggie was old like Bailey, so that’s why they are there.

Danny: Why are you crying?  You said heaven is a nice place, right?

Cut to five minutes later, when Danny is literally shrieking like a bird because he can’t wear his raggeddy ass sandals to the gas station.  I tell him, “You’re crying over that?  Footwear?  Can I have your problems?”

Sometimes I don’t feel trained and/or responsible enough for the intricacies of parenting. 

Carry on.

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