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Parenting Mistake #529： I promised my five-yearold daughter， Sonya， that we could visit Grandma Joanie and Grandpa Roger “soon.”
This was impossible. My parents died before Sonya was born. But I didn’t know how to tackle[处理] the whathappens-after-we-die talk， so whenever the subject of my parents came up， I had tried to divert[转移] her attention or say vague[含糊的] things like， “They’re very far away.”
I’m not proud of waiting five years to talk about the Great Beyond注1. And I’m not sure what made me step over the threshold[门槛] into Blatant[公然的] Lie-ville[地域]. I don’t know what happens after death and I don’t think we’re supposed to know， but I was scared of telling my kid that. My aunt died when I was 10， followed by my dad when I was 11， and my stepdad[继父] when I was 16. I remember my mom trying to explain death to me， using words like “peaceful” and “a relief[解脱]，” which made me only more confused.
I knew Sonya was too detail-oriented[注重细节的] to accept vague descriptions[描述]. But if I made up some huge pajama[睡衣] party in the sky or a land of eternal[永恒的] ice cream and fairies， that wouldn’t fly either.
So the next Saturday morning， while Sonya was tracing[描摹] hearts with her new markers， we had this conversation：
“Hey， remember when I said we could go visit Grandma Joanie and Grandpa Roger？”
“Yeah.”
“Well， I was wrong. We actually can’t. Because they died a long time ago.”
Sonya laughed and said， “No they didn’t！”
“Yes， they did，” I continued. “And afterwards they became invisible[看不见的]， but we can think of them and look at their pictures. Some people say it’s fun after we die and some people say it’s quiet.”
“If you have any questions， or you want to talk about it， we can do that any time，” My husband Jay added.
Sonya shrugged[耸肩] and went back to her artwork. Jay and I stood up slowly. We weren’t sure the message had gotten through； she didn’t look upset so much as bored. But we high-fived[举手击掌] over her head anyway. Crisis[危机] averted[避免].
Until pi？ata注2 time.
Late last fall， at her 40th birthday party， my best friend， Shoshana， climbed up on a rock in her backyard and explained the rules of pi？ata to all of our kids. Shoshana had been given a diagnosis[诊断] of Stage four cancer. I had watched her defy[藐视] all the doctors and prognoses[预测] and even dance into the O.R.注3 for spinal[脊柱的] surgery[手术]. But watching her teeter[步履蹒跚] next to the papier-maché[纸胶混合物] donkey， I knew she was dying. And somehow， without my telling her， Sonya knew it， too. I had warned her about Shoshana wearing a big hat and looking tired. I could tell that she’d filled in the blanks.
“We’re not hitting，” Shoshana said. “We’re petting[爱抚]. We’re loving. We’re…”
Her dot[点]， dot， dot took too long. Sonya stamped[顿足] her foot impatiently. She just wanted the candy to come down.
When we got home from the party， Sonya started pulling out the D word any chance she could.
Me： “Let’s make a picture of our family.”
Sonya： “But your family is DEAD.”
Or Jay （waltzing[跳华尔兹舞] with Sonya in his arms）： “One day I’m gonna dance like this with you at your wedding.”
Sonya： “Unless you DIE before then.”
Then， while we were playing in the park in a pile of leaves， I got the call. It had happened. Shoshana was dead. The cloudless sky was her home now. Or maybe she was in the shadows of the shedding[脱落] trees.
This was the discussion I really feared. The first loss that Sonya and I would experience together. Nobody was responsible and no one was to blame. It was just a horrible magic trick： here one minute， gone the next. And the next after that. Forever.
Jay and I sat on the sidewalk and explained that Auntie Shoshana had died. It was helpful that her body didn’t have to work so hard， but it was also hard that we couldn’t see her anymore. I heard myself using some of the same foggy[模糊的] words my mom had offered me decades before： “peaceful，” “a relief.” I was trying to convince[说服] myself at the same time as my five-year-old that this could be true. That Shoshana could really be in a better place， however unknown. When I petered out[逐渐消失]， Jay said that I might be a little sad for a while. Again， we opened it up for questions.
Sonya asked me if I could show her how sad I was going to be using my hands. I stretched[伸直] them out to about my shoulders. Sonya studied my measurement of sadness and nodded. “O.K.，” she said. “Can we still get ice cream？”
“Yes，” I blurted out[脱口而出]， even though it was ten in the morning.
It was the only thing I felt like I could say for sure. Yes. Watching her sweet milky grin[露齿笑]， hearing her sing on top of Jay’s shoulders， smelling the new leaf piles still wet from the night before. Yes. This was what it meant to go on living without looking for answers.
为人父母犯的第529个错误：我答应我五岁的女儿桑雅，我们“很快”就会去拜访外婆乔安妮和外公罗杰。
这是不可能的事。我的父母在桑雅出生之前就去世了。但我不知道该怎么和她解释“人死后会发生什么”这个问题，所以每次提到我父母这个话题时，我都会试着转移她的注意力，或者说些诸如“他们在很远的地方”这种含糊不清的话。 等了五年才（与孩子）谈论“来生”，这可不是什么让我自豪的事。我不确定是什么让我跨越（道德的）门槛进入公然撒谎的地域。我不知道人死后会发生什么，也不认为我们应该知道，可我不敢告诉我的孩子这一点。我姑妈在我十岁时就去世了，十一岁时爸爸也跟着去了，十六岁时我的继父也走了。我记得妈妈曾经试着用“平和”、“一种解脱”这类词语向我解释死亡，结果只是让我更加迷惑。
我知道桑雅非常注重细节，她不接受含糊的说辞。但如果我编造出一些大型空中睡衣派对或者一个永恒的冰淇淋和仙女的国度，大概也行不通。
于是，在接下来的周六早晨，当桑雅用新买的马克笔描画心形图画时，我们有了这样一段对话：
“嘿，还记得我说过我们会去拜访乔安妮外婆和罗杰外公的事吗？”
“记得。”
“好吧，其实我错了。实际上我们去不了，因为他们很久以前就去世了。”
桑雅笑着说道：“不，他们没死！”
“真的，他们死了，”我接着说。“人死后就不见了，但我们可以思念他们，可以看看他们的照片。有人说我们死后将去往乐土，也有人说人死后将归于宁静。”
“如果你还有任何疑问，或者你想谈论它，我们任何时候都可以讨论这个话题，”我的丈夫杰伊补充道。
桑雅耸耸肩，然后回到她的艺术创作中去了。杰伊和我慢慢站起身。我们不确定她有没有听进这段话：她看起来并没有不安，反而有些无聊。但我们在她头上举手击掌了一下——不管怎样危机解除了。
直到一次玩皮纳塔游戏时（问题才暴露出来）。
去年秋末，我最好的朋友肖莎娜在她40岁生日派对那天爬上了后院的一块石头上，向所有孩子解释皮纳塔游戏的规则。肖莎娜已被诊断为癌症晚期。我见过她无视所有医生和病情预测，甚至跳着舞进手术室接受脊柱手术的样子。但是看着她在纸驴旁步履蹒跚的身影，我知道她时日不多了。
不知怎的，桑雅在我没有告知的情况下竟然对此也了然于胸。我曾提醒过她肖莎娜会戴着一顶大帽子，而且看上去很憔悴。我敢说她已经猜到了八九分。
“我们不是在砸，”肖莎娜说道。“我们是在爱抚，在用心去爱，在……”
她歇了又歇，停顿得有点过久了。桑雅不耐烦地跺脚。她只想要掉下来的糖果。
当我们离开派对回家后，桑雅一逮到机会就说带有“死”的字眼。
我：“我们来拍一张全家福吧！”
桑雅：“可你的家人都‘死’了啊！”
或者杰伊（搂着桑雅跳华尔兹）：“总有一天，我会在你的婚礼上这么搂着你跳舞的。”
桑雅：“只要你那时候还没‘死’。”
后来，当我们在公园里的一堆树叶上玩耍时，我接到了那个电话，它终究还是发生了——肖莎娜死了。晴空万里的天空现在是她的归宿了。或许她活在斑驳的树影中。
这是我真正害怕的一个话题：我和桑雅第一次一起经历失去某个人。没有人需要为此负责，也没有人该受责备。这只是一个恐怖的魔术：前一分钟还在，下一分钟就消失了，然后永远地消失了。
我和杰伊坐在路边和桑雅解释肖莎娜阿姨的死讯。让人欣慰的是她不需要再受罪，但再也见不到她还是让我们很难过。我听到自己正在（对桑雅）说一些我妈妈几十年前和我说的同样含糊不清的话：“安宁”、“一种解脱”。同时，我也像自己五岁时那样，尽力说服自己去相信这些话。肖莎娜确实可能去了一个更好的地方，但没有人知道答案。当我没底气地说完这段话后，杰伊说我可能会难受一阵子。又一次，我们留下了一个悬而未决的问题。
桑雅问我能不能用我的双手来表示我有多难受。我伸出双手，与肩同宽。桑雅仔细看了看我表现出来的悲痛程度，点了点头。“好吧！”她说。“我们还能吃冰淇淋吗？”
“当然可以，”我脱口而出，即使那是在早上十点。
这是我觉得唯一可以确定的事情。是的，望着她甜甜的笑颜，听着她骑在杰伊肩头上自在地欢唱，嗅着昨夜留下的湿漉漉的新落叶的味道。是的，这就是生活，无需寻求解答，只需要继续活着。
This was impossible. My parents died before Sonya was born. But I didn’t know how to tackle[处理] the whathappens-after-we-die talk， so whenever the subject of my parents came up， I had tried to divert[转移] her attention or say vague[含糊的] things like， “They’re very far away.”
I’m not proud of waiting five years to talk about the Great Beyond注1. And I’m not sure what made me step over the threshold[门槛] into Blatant[公然的] Lie-ville[地域]. I don’t know what happens after death and I don’t think we’re supposed to know， but I was scared of telling my kid that. My aunt died when I was 10， followed by my dad when I was 11， and my stepdad[继父] when I was 16. I remember my mom trying to explain death to me， using words like “peaceful” and “a relief[解脱]，” which made me only more confused.
I knew Sonya was too detail-oriented[注重细节的] to accept vague descriptions[描述]. But if I made up some huge pajama[睡衣] party in the sky or a land of eternal[永恒的] ice cream and fairies， that wouldn’t fly either.
So the next Saturday morning， while Sonya was tracing[描摹] hearts with her new markers， we had this conversation：
“Hey， remember when I said we could go visit Grandma Joanie and Grandpa Roger？”
“Yeah.”
“Well， I was wrong. We actually can’t. Because they died a long time ago.”
Sonya laughed and said， “No they didn’t！”
“Yes， they did，” I continued. “And afterwards they became invisible[看不见的]， but we can think of them and look at their pictures. Some people say it’s fun after we die and some people say it’s quiet.”
“If you have any questions， or you want to talk about it， we can do that any time，” My husband Jay added.
Sonya shrugged[耸肩] and went back to her artwork. Jay and I stood up slowly. We weren’t sure the message had gotten through； she didn’t look upset so much as bored. But we high-fived[举手击掌] over her head anyway. Crisis[危机] averted[避免].
Until pi？ata注2 time.
Late last fall， at her 40th birthday party， my best friend， Shoshana， climbed up on a rock in her backyard and explained the rules of pi？ata to all of our kids. Shoshana had been given a diagnosis[诊断] of Stage four cancer. I had watched her defy[藐视] all the doctors and prognoses[预测] and even dance into the O.R.注3 for spinal[脊柱的] surgery[手术]. But watching her teeter[步履蹒跚] next to the papier-maché[纸胶混合物] donkey， I knew she was dying. And somehow， without my telling her， Sonya knew it， too. I had warned her about Shoshana wearing a big hat and looking tired. I could tell that she’d filled in the blanks.
“We’re not hitting，” Shoshana said. “We’re petting[爱抚]. We’re loving. We’re…”
Her dot[点]， dot， dot took too long. Sonya stamped[顿足] her foot impatiently. She just wanted the candy to come down.
When we got home from the party， Sonya started pulling out the D word any chance she could.
Me： “Let’s make a picture of our family.”
Sonya： “But your family is DEAD.”
Or Jay （waltzing[跳华尔兹舞] with Sonya in his arms）： “One day I’m gonna dance like this with you at your wedding.”
Sonya： “Unless you DIE before then.”
Then， while we were playing in the park in a pile of leaves， I got the call. It had happened. Shoshana was dead. The cloudless sky was her home now. Or maybe she was in the shadows of the shedding[脱落] trees.
This was the discussion I really feared. The first loss that Sonya and I would experience together. Nobody was responsible and no one was to blame. It was just a horrible magic trick： here one minute， gone the next. And the next after that. Forever.
Jay and I sat on the sidewalk and explained that Auntie Shoshana had died. It was helpful that her body didn’t have to work so hard， but it was also hard that we couldn’t see her anymore. I heard myself using some of the same foggy[模糊的] words my mom had offered me decades before： “peaceful，” “a relief.” I was trying to convince[说服] myself at the same time as my five-year-old that this could be true. That Shoshana could really be in a better place， however unknown. When I petered out[逐渐消失]， Jay said that I might be a little sad for a while. Again， we opened it up for questions.
Sonya asked me if I could show her how sad I was going to be using my hands. I stretched[伸直] them out to about my shoulders. Sonya studied my measurement of sadness and nodded. “O.K.，” she said. “Can we still get ice cream？”
“Yes，” I blurted out[脱口而出]， even though it was ten in the morning.
It was the only thing I felt like I could say for sure. Yes. Watching her sweet milky grin[露齿笑]， hearing her sing on top of Jay’s shoulders， smelling the new leaf piles still wet from the night before. Yes. This was what it meant to go on living without looking for answers.
为人父母犯的第529个错误：我答应我五岁的女儿桑雅，我们“很快”就会去拜访外婆乔安妮和外公罗杰。
这是不可能的事。我的父母在桑雅出生之前就去世了。但我不知道该怎么和她解释“人死后会发生什么”这个问题，所以每次提到我父母这个话题时，我都会试着转移她的注意力，或者说些诸如“他们在很远的地方”这种含糊不清的话。 等了五年才（与孩子）谈论“来生”，这可不是什么让我自豪的事。我不确定是什么让我跨越（道德的）门槛进入公然撒谎的地域。我不知道人死后会发生什么，也不认为我们应该知道，可我不敢告诉我的孩子这一点。我姑妈在我十岁时就去世了，十一岁时爸爸也跟着去了，十六岁时我的继父也走了。我记得妈妈曾经试着用“平和”、“一种解脱”这类词语向我解释死亡，结果只是让我更加迷惑。
我知道桑雅非常注重细节，她不接受含糊的说辞。但如果我编造出一些大型空中睡衣派对或者一个永恒的冰淇淋和仙女的国度，大概也行不通。
于是，在接下来的周六早晨，当桑雅用新买的马克笔描画心形图画时，我们有了这样一段对话：
“嘿，还记得我说过我们会去拜访乔安妮外婆和罗杰外公的事吗？”
“记得。”
“好吧，其实我错了。实际上我们去不了，因为他们很久以前就去世了。”
桑雅笑着说道：“不，他们没死！”
“真的，他们死了，”我接着说。“人死后就不见了，但我们可以思念他们，可以看看他们的照片。有人说我们死后将去往乐土，也有人说人死后将归于宁静。”
“如果你还有任何疑问，或者你想谈论它，我们任何时候都可以讨论这个话题，”我的丈夫杰伊补充道。
桑雅耸耸肩，然后回到她的艺术创作中去了。杰伊和我慢慢站起身。我们不确定她有没有听进这段话：她看起来并没有不安，反而有些无聊。但我们在她头上举手击掌了一下——不管怎样危机解除了。
直到一次玩皮纳塔游戏时（问题才暴露出来）。
去年秋末，我最好的朋友肖莎娜在她40岁生日派对那天爬上了后院的一块石头上，向所有孩子解释皮纳塔游戏的规则。肖莎娜已被诊断为癌症晚期。我见过她无视所有医生和病情预测，甚至跳着舞进手术室接受脊柱手术的样子。但是看着她在纸驴旁步履蹒跚的身影，我知道她时日不多了。
不知怎的，桑雅在我没有告知的情况下竟然对此也了然于胸。我曾提醒过她肖莎娜会戴着一顶大帽子，而且看上去很憔悴。我敢说她已经猜到了八九分。
“我们不是在砸，”肖莎娜说道。“我们是在爱抚，在用心去爱，在……”
她歇了又歇，停顿得有点过久了。桑雅不耐烦地跺脚。她只想要掉下来的糖果。
当我们离开派对回家后，桑雅一逮到机会就说带有“死”的字眼。
我：“我们来拍一张全家福吧！”
桑雅：“可你的家人都‘死’了啊！”
或者杰伊（搂着桑雅跳华尔兹）：“总有一天，我会在你的婚礼上这么搂着你跳舞的。”
桑雅：“只要你那时候还没‘死’。”
后来，当我们在公园里的一堆树叶上玩耍时，我接到了那个电话，它终究还是发生了——肖莎娜死了。晴空万里的天空现在是她的归宿了。或许她活在斑驳的树影中。
这是我真正害怕的一个话题：我和桑雅第一次一起经历失去某个人。没有人需要为此负责，也没有人该受责备。这只是一个恐怖的魔术：前一分钟还在，下一分钟就消失了，然后永远地消失了。
我和杰伊坐在路边和桑雅解释肖莎娜阿姨的死讯。让人欣慰的是她不需要再受罪，但再也见不到她还是让我们很难过。我听到自己正在（对桑雅）说一些我妈妈几十年前和我说的同样含糊不清的话：“安宁”、“一种解脱”。同时，我也像自己五岁时那样，尽力说服自己去相信这些话。肖莎娜确实可能去了一个更好的地方，但没有人知道答案。当我没底气地说完这段话后，杰伊说我可能会难受一阵子。又一次，我们留下了一个悬而未决的问题。
桑雅问我能不能用我的双手来表示我有多难受。我伸出双手，与肩同宽。桑雅仔细看了看我表现出来的悲痛程度，点了点头。“好吧！”她说。“我们还能吃冰淇淋吗？”
“当然可以，”我脱口而出，即使那是在早上十点。
这是我觉得唯一可以确定的事情。是的，望着她甜甜的笑颜，听着她骑在杰伊肩头上自在地欢唱，嗅着昨夜留下的湿漉漉的新落叶的味道。是的，这就是生活，无需寻求解答，只需要继续活着。