Dad Diary: A Smashed Snake and Our First Real Talk About Death

At What Age Do Kids Understand its Finality?

The other day, just after the rain, my three-year-old and I were making our regular walk up the street to get the mail when he suddenly stopped and looked at the ground. There on the asphalt was a young gopher snake, crushed and bloody, its insides on the outside.

“What’s that?” he asked. Here we go, I thought. Our first real conversation about death.

I’d always imagined ― or hoped ― his first encounter with the other side of life would be a belly-up goldfish or a bird lying still in grass. Or even our 16-year-old cat. Something like that. But here it was, in an especially gory and disorienting form, staring us in the face.

I paused. I could have gone with the “Oh, it’s just sleeping” routine, but that wasn’t right. He knew better. I thought about describing heaven, or a soul, or something else beautiful and abstract. But as someone who’s still confused about such things, I couldn’t find the words.

So I tried to be as concrete and honest as I could. It’s worked before.

“Well, that’s a snake, and it’s dead.”

“What’s dead?”

“It means… It means its body doesn’t work anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because it got hurt. I think a car squished it.”

“Did our car squish it?”

“No no, not our car.” (I actually wasn’t sure of that, but decided to save guilt for another day.)

“But why doesn’t his body work anymore?”

“Because when something that’s alive gets really old or really hurt, it stops moving. It gets really still … it’s kinda sad.”

I could see his wheels turning. Mine were too. He looked up.

“The snake is sad?” (I stepped right into that one.)

“No, he’s not sad. I mean it’s sad he’s not alive anymore.”

“Oh… maybe he’ll be happy tomorrow.”

Oof. I wanted to keep being truthful but could tell we were reaching the limits of his understanding. This is someone who’s still learning how to put on his shoes.

“Um, yeah… maybe.”

We kept walking. Both of us were silent. I assumed he was still deep in thought, chewing on the concepts of existence and mortality. Five seconds later we were on the subjects of rainbow popsicles and monster trucks.

Later in bed, I wondered if I’d blown it. Should I have tried to explain that the snake didn’t feel anything anymore? Should I have said something about how death means forever?

As a parent, I have a bad habit of Googling information and advice after the moment has passed. Turns out, this time, I mostly did okay.

Psychologists have been studying children’s ideas about death since the 1930s. The first research was published in 1934, when doctors interviewed boys at the Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital and recorded their responses after a doll was dropped on the ground.

Today, psychologists gauge a child’s comprehension based on three main characteristics of death. The first is its “irreversibility.” Many three year olds can’t grasp the idea that once something is dead, it can’t ever be alive again. There is no tomorrow. They hold out hope it can be brought back with food, medicine, or magic.

Most children start to get death’s finality by age 4. In one study, researchers found that only 10 percent of three year olds understand irreversibility, compared with 58 percent of four year olds.

The other two aspects are learned later on, usually between the ages of 5 and 7 ― “nonfunctionality,” the idea that a dead body can no longer do things that a living body can do; and “universality,” the concept that every living thing will one day die. Before universality sinks in, many kids believe there are some people who are protected from death, like teachers, parents, and themselves.

So I guess it’s good we stopped where we did with the snake. We were getting out of his depth. And it’s inevitable we’ll run into the circle of life again, with all the questions that remain. So far, we’ve been spared the passing of any close family or friends, which is a whole other conversation.

NPR recently interviewed a hospice social worker named Rosemarie Truglio, who specializes in talking with children about the death. She compared the gradual process of helping them understand it to how a kid eats an apple, mine included:

“They take a bite, maybe two bites, then put it down,” Truglio explained. “That’s probably how they’re going to experience death as well. They’re gonna take a couple of bites. They’re gonna go on with their lives. And then they’re going to come back, and they’re going to take a couple more bites.”

Truglio is also a senior vice president of curriculum at the Sesame Workshop. Back in 1983, Sesame Street aired what would become one of the show’s most famous episodes, “Goodbye Mr. Hooper.” It was broadcast on Thanksgiving Day, when PBS executives knew grown-ups would be home watching with their kids.

The show’s writers were responding to the real-life death of Will Lee, the elderly actor who played Mr. Hooper and ran Sesame’s corner store. They could have written his character a happy ending, but they decided to confront the truth head-on. The episode was considered a landmark in children’s television programming and won a Peabody Award.

“Mr. Hooper’s not coming back,” one of the adult cast members, Susan, tells Big Bird. All of the show’s adults are there, gathered in a semicircle.

“Why not?” Big Bird asks.

“Big Bird, when people die, they don’t come back,” Susan tells him.

“Ever?”

“No. Never.”

“Well,” Big Bird says, his voice rising with fear and concern, “why not?”

The show then provides the gold standard for how to talk with young children about death. It’s authentic and touching, with the grown-ups shooting each other looks and struggling at times to choose the right words. Some of them cry. They speak slowly, avoid euphemisms, and acknowledge the sadness of the moment while offering collective comfort.

At the end of the episode, Big Bird is sitting quietly in his oversized nest when he’s visited by the adults, who introduce him to a new baby on the street. Big Bird is thrilled, fawns over the little one, then drops a famously hopeful last line:

“Gee, you know what the nice thing is about new babies?” he asks. “One day they’re not here, and the next day, here they are!”