One of G’s favorite games is to build a cube out of our square throw pillows and hide inside it in the corner of our sectional sofa. He sits in it all the time. Usually, it’s an alien spaceship or a Pokémon ball or a house or a bed.
Today, it was the casket for his baby-doll’s father. (Which, following standard toddler logic, means the resting place is his own.)
Disclaimer: It’s not completely unheard of for him to mention funerals and cemeteries in his play; we’ve had a freakish number of deaths in our immediate circle since his birth, and play is how kids work through things, I know, I know.
Still. Today’s adventure was detailed enough to be a bit disturbing.
Here’s the full transcript:
G: (mumble-mumble-mumble from the depths of the comfy-fied pillow casket)
Me: Hmm? What, baby?
G: Moopiter’s dad died.
M: What? That’s sad.
G: Moopiter’s dad died. Now he’s in the box.
M: What box?
G: The box. Like at the cemetery where they put the people.
M: (Intentionally not overreacting. See? I’m such an adult.) Aw, that’s sad. What happened?
G: Moopiter’s dad died. He was hungry, so he went in the kitchen and was making a salad. He was going to make it with spinach leaves, but he messed up and made it with poison ivy leaves, and now he is died [sic].
G: And I am Moopiter’s dad, and now I am in the box.
M: Um, why did you put poison ivy in your salad?
From the next room, my husband’s disembodied voice: Son, that’s why I always try to keep my poison ivy leaves somewhere other than the kitchen. Makes things easier.
G: Well, I went into the woods, and I got the leaves, and I cut them up, and I got the wrong ones. Because they are all poison ivy in the woods.
G: And I put them in the bowl, and I cut them up and they were not little, and I put bacon, and I put croutons, and cheese, and that white sauce — ranch dressing? I put that. And then I just eat it up and I died.
M: Ohhhkay. Um, well. That makes me sad.
M: Hey, G, if I go get it, will you tell that story to my camera?
G: (flatly) I already died. I can’t talk to you anymore.
And by God, he didn’t. Wouldn’t. Refused.
Well, until a little later, when he launched into a ghostly voice, allegedly mimicking one he says he hears from his grandmother’s vault at the mausoleum, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog post.
Is it normal for three-year-olds to play funeral? I’m starting to wonder…