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Most parents probably feel as though they've walked into a room and been presented with an exam for which they have neither studied nor attended classes.

A television advertisement for an international child-

welfare agency sparked just such a moment with my four-year-old son, Dylan. He caught the words "children are dying" and looked up from what he was doing, bewildered.

"Mommy, do children die?"

"Sometimes they do. That man is talking about very poor children in other countries who don't have enough to eat, so they get sick and die."

He tried to knit this new information together with what he already knew, in the way children do to make sense of the world: "Some children don't have mommies and daddies, and they can't drive cars, and they can't go to the grocery store by themselves, so they can't get food."

"Well, it's more because they don't have money to buy food. We are very lucky that we do,"

I said.

"We are very lucky!" he sang out, smiling. Whew. Close one. Now we can get back to building our Play-Doh farm.

But his smile quickly vanished. "Am I going to die?"

"All people eventually die," I said, forging ahead with the bare facts. "Everything that is alive dies."

He pondered this briefly before his lips began to quiver and his eyes filled with tears. "I don't want to die," he cried.

I hugged him and said, "Honey, you don't have to worry! You're not going to die. Not for a long, long time. Not until you are very old."

This had worked with my older son last year. Not so with Dylan. He was just getting started. "But are you going to die?" he asked.

"Well, yes, but not for a very long time."

"Is Daddy?" And the list went on and on - Grandma, Grandpa, his kindergarten teacher, his swimming instructor, the neighbourhood cat, the trees in the backyard. More tears.

More hugs and attempts at consolation.

"But what happens when

you die? You go to beside a gravestone?"

This was the moment I had been dreading, the point at which my lack of faith failed me. I should have been prepared to impart my wisdom about death and what comes after. Unfortunately, I have none. I have often envied true believers their certainty about what comes after life. Believers know what to tell their children. Here I was on voting day, still undecided.

I began to panic. My son was having an existential crisis. I could see only two options: tell him there is nothing after you die - you no longer exist - or that you go to heaven.

And so heaven entered our house. Dylan perked up and I felt relieved. But heaven is not so simple. It comes with its own logistical complexities.

"Where is heaven?"

"Nobody really knows for sure."

"I think Daddy might know."

"Hmmm, I don't think so."

"Maybe he can look it up on the website."

"Maybe," I said.

"But how do I get there? I don't know where it is!" he said, lips quivering again.

"The angels take you there," I blurted. I had already jumped off the cliff.

"The angels dig you up from the ground and take you to heaven?"

"Your body stays in the ground and turns into trees and water and air. But the angels take your spirit to heaven."

"What is your spirit?"

"It's what's inside your head. It's who you really are, inside. It's ..."

Dylan returned to his list of loved ones and went through them one by one so I could confirm each would be taken to heaven by the angels.

"And we'll be alive again in heaven? We'll be together?"

Yes. Yes.

"Will our house die when we die?"

"No. The house isn't alive, so it can't die."

"Will other people live in our house after we die? Will they have our food? Will they have our jammies?"

You see what I mean about the complexities.

I said we wouldn't need these things in heaven, but he was not convinced. I gave up. He ran through his list of beloved non-living items, confirming what he could take with him.

"Can we just bring the whole house with us?" Absolutely.

"And the angels will help us carry everything?" Of course!

"Yay! Yay!"

After school that day, Dylan said to his six-year-old brother: "Liam, guess where you go when you die?"

"To the graveyard," Liam said, shrugging at this no-brainer.

"No!" Dylan said. "You go to heaven!"

Liam frowned and looked to me for confirmation of this strange new concept. I shrugged, adding lamely, "That's what some people think."

Dylan ignored my uncertainty. He had discussed heaven with his kindergarten colleagues and had new information. "Kabeer's dad knows where heaven is. He drew him a map!"

Sometimes, my children seem like Yodas in disguise: little Jedi masters sent to put me through the rigorous training I require to reach my full potential as a human being. Clearly, I have some cramming to do.

Amy McDonald lives in

Mississauga, Ont.