My Diary of Triplet Fatherhood

“What would you like to be when you grow up Evie?”

“A princess or maybe I would work at ASDA with Mummy so we could see each other every day and have dinner in the cafe.”

“That sounds like fun. What about you Jem?”

“Just a mummy. Or maybe a space man.”

“Hm. Ok. And you, Scarlett?”

(Long pause). “I would not like to be a fairy because when I was flying I might stop flapping my wings and then I would fall down from the sky and I would die.”

Poor Scarlett. She seems to have developed something of a morbid fixation recently. Last week I was greeted daily with sudden out bursts of “I will be sad when you die, Daddy” accompanied by clinging cuddles and a deep frown across her forehead. The week before it was questions like “Why do people die?” and “Who will look after us when you are dead?”. Not the kind of question you want thrust upon you unexpectedly.

Yet despite my best attempts at calm reassurance – “Oh, I won’t be dying for a long time yet, sweetheart”, “Just imagine how full the World would be if no one ever died!” and “There are lots of people who love you and would look after you but you needn’t worry; me and Mummy aren’t going to die any time soon” – her obsession shows no signs of abating.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so honest when the question of death was first raised a few years ago. I don’t believe in Heaven or an afterlife so it seemed dishonest to tell my children anything except that when you die, your mind is no longer there and your body stops moving. Of course, I tried to couch it in a way that wouldn’t upset a two year old but despite my best efforts there was a period of a few months when they wanted to know more. It started with questions like “Will you die?”, “Will Mummy Die?”, “Will Rara die?”, “Will Nana die?”, and then moved on to “Do birds die?”, “Do dogs die?”, “Do trees die?”, “Do lamposts die?”, “Do cars die?”…

All of which I would try to answer truthfully and yet reassuringly. “Yes, but not for a long time”, “Everything that’s alive dies eventually, but don’t forget: new ones are born, too”, “No, lamposts were never alive”, “No, cars were never alive either. Well, except for leather seats… um, never mind.”

J blames Disney. The only TV our girls ever watch is a weekly Disney film. And is there a single Disney film that doesn’t involve death – generally of one (or both) parents?

In any case, matters weren’t helped by our visit to the National Coal Mining Museum over Easter. We took part in a guided tour through an old mine works, 140m below ground which the girls had been very excited about, thrilled at the thought of being deep underground and of houses, cars and people all being above their heads. Only the guide’s gallows humour was rather lost on three four year olds; so when he joked, as we rattled downwards in a crowded lift, that only last week the rope had snapped and everyone had died, except the guide, Scarlett began to look worried. And when he told the tale of another mine where the shaft had collapsed and hundreds of men and boys had suffocated to death, she grew more nervous still. Shortly afterwards, he joked to another child that if they heard rushing water not to try following him, he’d have long since legged it up the escape tunnel.

Jem didn’t seem to be affected but Evie was – she said several times, after the we returned to the surface, that she didn’t like it there and didn’t think we should come back. And, as for Scarlett, it just filled her with more questions about death. “Why do you die if you have no air?”, “Do people really die underground?”, “Would you die if the lift fell off its rope?”, “If all the houses and cars and people walking above us fell down would we die?”.

I can only see two ways to deal with this. Either just keep answering her questions truthfully and honestly… or change her name to Wednesday Addams.