So, as we were making our final descent in Miami, I started to get as excited as my little guy who spent the entire 2.5 hours saying “Mommy, we’re flying!” What I initially thought was a feeling of new adventure, was really a comfort in going back to the familiar. Anyone who’s been to Miami International Airport knows that it’s in perpetual construction and there’s always something new – even that felt familiar.

When we were driving on I-95 to go home, which has also had some work done to it in the past 18 months, it all felt the same. I knew the exit signs, I knew how much farther we had to go, I knew the crazy drivers who were going to speed past to get in front of you only to slam on their brakes. Before we even made it home, I finally accepted that the word I’d been avoiding is that this felt like home.

I used to think of myself as a nomad. I had no trouble packing up and moving to a new place when I felt the time was right. I never really felt like I was leaving a home behind, I was simply going to create a new one wherever I went. Well, I don’t know if it’s age or the fact that Venezuelan society is a bit more difficult to infiltrate , but I now know that for the time being, South Florida is where I consider to be my home.

My first few days there were blissful. The humidity was at about 70% and the temperature was over 100F. It was normal…expected. I didn’t want to anything and I wanted to do everything. The latter is what got me into trouble the remainder of my trip. This picture is the view from my bedroom window. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s home (wow, that’s 4 times in one post ).

I had the unfortunate experience recently of having to explain death to my daughter. Back when she was 6 years-old I had to tell her about the parent of one of her friends passing. I was very matter of fact about it – can’t help it, it’s my personality, and all I told her was that he had been ill and passed away. For a few months afterwards, I remember how she was afraid of dying every time she was sick. So lesson learned and I needed a new approach.

This time I told her that the person went to heaven. That immediately brought on the questions about what heaven was like, did she now have wings, does she hang out with the angels, etc. I answered as many questions as I could and eventually referred her to her trusty Bible.

In terms of the Haitian culture, there are various ways parents handle telling children about death. Some ignore it completely thinking that the child will eventually forget about the person. Others announce the news indirectly by their own grieving or overheard conversations. I was about my daughter’s age (8 years-old) when my mother first started telling me about people going to heaven. Since I have no recollection of being scared afterwards, I think it was the right time.

My daughter handled this sad news pretty well. She told me she felt sad and later drew a picture of the person in heaven dancing on clouds. I’m going to assume for now that this approach was more conducive to her personality

How do you handle talking to children about death? Do you have any cultural norms or have you developed your own? Do you remember the first time you were told about death?