In which we deal with one of the crappier parts of parenthood...

6:27 a.m.
Our bedroom

sotto voce
Me: Wake up.
Leroy: Huh
Me: Wake up!
Leroy: What?
Me: Ruby's dead.
Leroy: Oh no.
Me: What are we going to do? Do we tell her?
Leroy: I don't know -
Enter Eva
Eva: Mommy, you know what -
Me: Eva, did you rinse your toothbrush?
Eva: Oh, I forgot!
Exit Eva
sotto voce
Me: What are we going to do?
Leroy: Don't tell her now -
Me: She wouldn't be able to go to school...
Leroy: No.
Me: What are we going to do?
Leroy: I'm trying to decide if this is a good lesson about death, or if we should just replace her.

And that's the question. Do we tell her the truth, or do we protect her? Our parents wouldn't have replaced her - pets died, it was sad, life goes on. Our parents didn't have to raise Eva.

Eva knows about death. She cried for two years when the dog died. Not a figurative two years, but an honest to God two calander years. We would be sitting at dinner, or at the grocery store, or where ever and she would suddenly start to cry. To sob. If you asked her why, she would say it was because she missed her puppy.

She still isn't over her Grandpa and her "Little Grandma" dying. She has the prayer card from Leroy's dad's funeral stashed in her desk and sometimes she just takes it out and carries it around. My grandmother knit her a wild pair of socks, and everytime she pulls them out she gets teary and talks about how she always has to remember her Little Grandma.

She knows about death. The choice is do we be honest with her or do we try to protect her from being hurt? And that's what parenthood comes down to, isn't it? Deciding when to let them be hurt. Of course you never want them to feel any kind of pain, but it happens and they grow and learn - but if you can spare them, do you?

Leroy is the one who let her have it - I'm still not sure how it happened. Went to PetsMart for a new dog collar and came home with a yellow and white bird cage, accessories and a blue parakeet that Eva christened Ruby.

The name drove Aidan crazy.
"Mom! It's blue."
"I know."
"She can't call it Ruby."
"It's her bird. She can name it Ruby if she wants to."
"Make her call it Sapphire - or Blue Flash. Hey Eva! Don't you think Blue Flash is a cool name?"
"No," said Eva. "I only like Ruby."
"M-o-m!"

I have countless portraits of Ruby. Ruby standing next to a mushroom. Ruby in a tree. Ruby and Eva (the same size) playing. Ruby and the American flag. Ruby, towering over our house.

When Eva played dress up, she attached huge, gaudy pieces of jewelery to Ruby's cage so that she could play too. Each day when Eva left for school she put a CD on repeat so that Ruby wouldn't miss her - usually yodeling or ABBA. Ruby had diverse tastes.

Leroy put her in the garbage this morning. I didn't know until it was too late. I can't help thinking that it was not the best idea. Granted, we don't want a dead animal in the house all day, but still...

When my brother Kyle was four or five, one of our parakeets - Admiral Bird - died of a chill. When my father came home, he asked Kyle if Admiral was in bird heaven. "No," said Kyle. "He's in the trash can." A very different kind of child.

RIP Ruby, you will be missed.