Ellie dragged out the classic game Jenga from one of our games/puzzles/bits & bobs/dust bunnies drawers, “Mommy, how do you play again?” I told her you build a tower and then sang the “you take a block from the bottom and you put it on top…..’til someone knocks it over and that’s when you stop, so you start all over putting blocks on top” jingle I remembered as we dumped the orange tube upside down and felt around in the drawer for the missing pieces the dust bunnies had turned into a race track.

She asked what the object of the game was.

I told her “You take turns building a tower and whoever places the block that knocks the tower over…”and then I paused and said, “isn’t the winner.”

What?

Why couldn’t I say, the off-balanced, impatient player with the hooks for hands who knocks over the tower is the loser.

I couldn’t say loser.

When I read that back it actually sounds better than when I was doing it. Why would I think my kid couldn’t handle me saying, “You would be the loser”?

Then a bird died in our yard. I could see it unfolding the final hours leading up to its death. It was walking around, never flying. The kids asked if we had any birdseed to offer. We didn’t, but we did have pumpkin seeds and that’s what we threw. It never thanked us though that might have lured in other predatory animals so in retrospect, not the best idea.

When we checked on it later, Chloe cautiously approached. It was face first in the grass, stone cold, hard as a rock.

I said, “Oh, the bird’s sleeping Chloe,” and we tiptoed backwards so as not to disturb it.

Nobody was waking up that bird. It was dead.

Why couldn’t I just say, “Oh, he didn’t make it.”

Do you protect your kids from bad news?