Two nights ago I read stories to my five year old son, tucked his blankets around him and began to bid him good night. He repeated our little good night wishes back to me, then with his face in the pillow, paused a long while and added a muffled, “…but I’m just so sad that I didn’t get a poppy.” He turned his face towards me and swiped at one eye with the back of a hand.
Uh oh. I asked him to repeat himself to see if I’d heard him correctly. I didn’t know for sure if he knew exactly what was going on with the poppies. I knew we’d talked briefly about Remembrance Day and that there was some discussion at school, but didn’t realize he would assume he should have a poppy too. (Not trying to be obtuse, but little kids and pins? With a baby in the house? Not my first instinct.)
Apparently someone had come in to his kindergarten class selling poppies at school, but you needed money to buy one, and he didn’t have any. He was totally dejected about it, feeling left out and worried that it was too late to get one. And if he didn’t have a poppy by Remembrance Day, he might not be able to remember the people who were in the war. His eyes were glistening and his voice was uneven. Oh dear. I was frantically scanning my memory, wondering if I had missed a note, a memo about bringing money to school for poppies. I couldn’t believe they actually thought kindergarten students would be walking around with money in their pockets.
I know Remembrance Day will be a very big deal to him this year. It is a huge collection of ideas he has rarely, if ever, had to ponder: war, fighting, soldiers, death, memories, graves, poppies. He is a sensitive boy, smart and thoughtful, with deep feelings. We have talked of death before, his own grandfather passed away two years ago and it took him a long time to understand. He will often tell us he misses his Grandpa, even though he was just three when it happened. He knows his great grandfather fought in the war. And he knows that people died. It’s bound to be an overwhelming and discussion filled day. It’s the first year he has been old enough to be aware of everything that is going on, and oh boy, is he aware.
I promise to make sure he has a poppy by Wednesday. I assure him that he absolutely can remember whatever he likes without it, that the poppy is a way to show respect and honour, but that it doesn’t affect what actually goes on in his heart and mind. I tell him that I will put money in his backpack with a note and if he has the chance again he can buy one. I promise that if they don’t come back to his class I will take him out and find him one.
After a few minutes of desolate conversation and sniffles, the issue is resolved enough for him to sleep. He’ll trust me, and we will fix it. He so desperately wants everything to be right for Remembrance Day.
The next day dawns and we get him ready. He has money tucked in his backpack just in case, but I don’t even mention the poppy. I hope he will get one at school, that we won’t have to go out looking for one. I hope that we won’t have any more tears or sad feelings before he gets one. He gets on the bus and heads to school.
The morning ticks by. I consider taking the baby out to go find him one, then stop and decide to wait. I write an email to my husband to bring one home from the airport when he flies home…then delete it. Wait. Finally it is lunchtime.
The school bus pulls up. I cross my fingers and hope. The doors open, and my son bursts to the top of the steps. He bounces down towards me and then as he hits the grass he turns, and beams at me. He looked taller, like he’d grown an extra inch since I’d seen him that morning. I finally realized why. He was standing tall, chest puffed out.
“LOOK! Mommy! I have a poppy!” I feel the weight lift off me and tell him how happy I am that he has one. He shows it to me – the colours, the pin and explains how it is attached to his shirt. Then I get a glimpse of what was going on the night before when he was suddenly so upset.
He takes a deep breath, looks at me in a heartfelt way and explains as we walk back to the house.
“Mommy, I needed this poppy. You have to have a poppy for Remembrance Day because it’s for remembering. It helps me remember. I can remember them so much better now that I have a poppy. You know, the people that were in the war. And some of them died in the war so we could be safe. When I didn’t have my poppy, I couldn’t remember as much. And I was so sad that I couldn’t remember them.”
“But I have to be careful when I’m remembering, because I feel really sad. And do you want to know what I look like when I’m really sad? Like this.” And he hangs his head and shakes it sorrowfully at the ground, mouth turned down in a sad clown face. “And then I kind of have to scrunch up my eyes like this when I’m really sad too. But I’m still glad to have my poppy because it’s important even if it is sad.”
He is standing beside me as we talk, and while I can see why I thought he looked taller, I still see such a small boy in front of me. I tell him that I am proud of him, that feeling sad about it just means that he is caring and loving, and how those are two of the things I love about him. I tell him that having thoughts of sad and serious things is important sometimes if it helps you understand them better.
“Mommy, I want to talk about wars, can you and me and Daddy talk about wars tomorrow?”
I take a deep breath of my own. Yes. Yes, we can. A sad and serious boy deserves sad and serious answers. If he’s ready to ask the questions, I’ll try to be ready to answer them.
