It’s just a nice way of saying the truth hurts, or that kids can be cruel little monsters.
Over a wonderful home cooked meal of steaming hot Pad Thai (which I was proud of the delicious turnout by the way), the conversation turned to what every good family dinner leads to – death and money.
My 7-year old daughter asks, “When you die, what happens to your money?”
I start to give her a drawn out explanation of wills and financial preparations, when she stops me.
“No, I mean, like your money. When you die.” She points her chopstick towards me. My son, ever the ambassador of fairness, sets her straight before I can swallow my mouthful of disconcertion.
“All the money is split between all three of us kids.” He says. “EVENLY, between all three of us. But that’s only if they both die. If Dad dies first, Mom gets all the money. If Mom dies first, Dad gets all the money. Then after the other one dies, all three of us will split the money. Evenly.”
This answer doesn’t sit well with my daughter, as it evokes a big “awwww.” She thinks for a moment as she winds her chopstick, making a cotton candy replica out of noodles. “How about I get dad’s money and you get mom’s money?” She bargains with her brother. Then she looks to me, “because, no offence, but you don’t really make any money.”
It takes a lot to keep me quiet, but this inquisition has rendered me speechless.
My son, along with being the ambassador of fairness, is also the defender of all things mom, and his sister had dealt a blow.
“Dad’s money is mom’s money, it’s all the same. Besides, she makes some money, when she sells something she writes. AND…when her book sells, she will be rich.”
He had me convinced, but my desire for his words to be my reality may have had a hand in his persuasion. My daughter wasn’t as easily convinced though.
“Yeah, but she has to do a lot of writing, and it takes a long time, and maybe nobody will even buy it. So, can I have dad’s money?”
My son reminded her that the money would be split three ways between the three siblings.
I reminded her to eat her dinner. I reminded myself that she’s only seven after all, and to find humour in her savagery of my starving artist self.
Out of the mouths of babes indeed.