I felt fortunate this year that my son’s holiday season was a happy one. In fact, he made out like a bandit. In my book, that’s as it should be. As we do every year, we also bought gifts for needy children, something he has come to appreciate and we enjoy doing as a family.

His happiness was particularly important to me this year. That’s because he suffered his first significant loss with the death of his grandmother just before Thanksgiving, and two days before his birthday. This was his mother’s mom, with whom he was particularly close. Although she had been ill for some time, it was a very difficult process for him to go through, and one that he — and I — were a little unprepared for. It was, after all, his biggest loss since his mom and I split up, something I’m still learning to navigate in one form or another, albeit on a less frequent basis.

It was helpful for him to mourn with his mother, and the two of them shared their grief in significant and helpful ways. My initial concern was that he tried very hard to be a “big kid” about it, and did not want to be overly sad about it. He appeared more concerned about his mother’s wellbeing than his own. I credit him for that, but tried to assure him that he needed to mourn also. During the memorial service he started to break down, and was visibly overwhelmed by all the mourners who kept assuring him that his grandmother loved him dearly. I took him out of the room and we took a long walk together before coming back to the room.

I eventually realized that I needed him to mourn in his own way, and that perhaps I was projecting my expectation that he should be more broken up. He was, but in his own way, and it would happen slowly over time. The break-down moment for me came a couple of weeks before Christmas, when he was assigned a tribute poem for school. Of course, he wrote it about his grandma. It was therapy for him, and it was the outpouring of emotion that I feared he was bottling up inside. I felt it healed him to a large degree.

But the entire experience left me doubting myself, and how I dealt with it. Horrible as it sounds to say, he will suffer the loss of those close to him in the years to come, and I wonder how I would handle it differently if that comes to pass. I consulted several online resources for advice, and “found this at kidshealth.org”:http://kidshealth.org/parent/emotions/feelings/death.html and also “this at hospicenet.org”:http://www.hospicenet.org/html/talking.html for suggestions. Still, one learns from experience, and I think the best lesson for me was to let him be while reassuring him that it’s okay to be sad and it’s okay to express yourself when you’re ready.

It’s not something you want to plan for, but you do need to be ready. That was my biggest lesson.

And no, I don’t mean supernaturally with the aid of a spiritual medium. I mean in thoughts, whether recorded in pen and ink, an audio or video recording or in a final e-mail message.

This is a question every parent needs to think about, whether we are hale and hearty or fresh from a disturbing biopsy. We cannot know in what manner or time our deaths will come, and we need to think about who we are leaving behind.

Most people probably (hopefully) have a will and have named a guardian. Some have life insurance. But how many of us have prepared a message for our kids to hear or read or see after we die? A message that lets them know who we were, what we dreamed and what we hope for their future?

What inspired this post is the amazing story of Randy Paush, who died today. He was a computer science professor at Carnegie Mellon University who performed pioneering work in virtual reality and how people relate to computers. He was also an inspiring teacher who embraced life with unusual zeal and joy.

Last September, he delivered a lecture that has become famous, first as a YouTube phenomenon and later as a best-selling book. What made the hour-long talk such a phenomenon was the wisdom, humor and humanity Paush conveyed in what he called his “last lecture.” Just 47, he learned weeks before the lecture that he would soon die of pancreatic cancer. But the lecture is not doom and gloom. Far from it. It was about how he had achieved his childhood dreams. The lecture, which has inspired millions, was truly given for an audience of three: Paush’s children, who today are 6, 3 and 2. “Under the ruse of giving an academic lecture, I was trying to put myself in a bottle that would one day wash up on the beach for my children,” he wrote in the introduction to his book, “The Last Lecture.” (Photo from USA Today.)

Here is the original Wall Street Journal article written by a reporter who attended the lecture and was moved to share it with the world (no subscription required). Here is USA Today’s story on his death, which has a links to a very nice photo gallery. And here is a link to a Diane Sawyer report on Pausch.

Since I heard that Randy died today, I’m crying tears of both sadness, inspiration — and guilt. I learned of his story months ago when I read this article and still haven’t created a posthumous message to Pumpkin.

I need to do this. We all need to do this. While few of us will have the talent of Randy Paush — or have lived his amazing life — we all can share something of ourselves with our children that can last even if we aren’t here. And if we are still alive as we hope, well then, won’t it be interesting for both of us to read what I imagined what I’d want to say to Pumpkin on her graduation day, the first day of her first job, her wedding day and the day her first child is born? I’d also like to write a letter to old Pumpkin, who I think about fondly quite often. I enjoy imagining her as a 92-year-old woman — that’s my goal age for her — and I hope with such hope that she will look back on a happy and useful and amazing life.

I hope to be around for many years to hug her and love her like only a mother can. But if I’m not, I want her to know what a gift she’s been to me. I’d like to tell her the stories I would have told while we lived our lives: Making dinner, shopping for school clothes and riding in the car between soccer games, ballet lessons and visiting colleges. I could tell her about what I was like as a child and a teenager, how I met her father, why I became a newspaper reporter and how I never put her down in her bassinet if I could carry her when she was a little baby. It will be a love letter to the greatest love of my life.

As I write this, it makes me think I’d like to write an article about the different ways people create posthumous messages to their kids. Contact me if you want to talk about how you’ve created messages for your kids, whether it’s in a video or an e-mail or in some other medium. My e-mail is jalterio@lohud.com and my number is 914-666-6189.

And here’s a big thank you for Randy Paush and his amazing example.

It’s not as if I need another book on my reading list, which is already backed up. But this one seems worth a look.

To hear him tell it, single dad blogger “Trey Ellis”:http://treyellis.com/blog had been plotting this out for a heck of a long time, even before he began writing in earnest three years ago. Initially, he simply sought to put together a memoir of his experiences as a single father. It kind of ended up being a little bit more than that.

“I was determined to capture the unvarnished truth,” he told me, “so I included events that evoke pity: my parents’ early deaths, my wife leaving me to raise our then three-year-old girl and eight-month-old boy, as well as revulsion: Internet porn and Brazilian hookers, as well as envy: beautiful French actresses, models, and an Italian countess.”

“As you will see in the book, the reason it took so long to finish was that I was living a life in search of an ending.”

Well, at least he seems to have found an ending for his book. “Bedtime Stories: Adventures in the Land of Single-Fatherhood”:http://treyellis.com/bedtimestories.htm makes me envious because I wish I had thought of it first.

But most of all, Bedtime Stories has me curious and interested to pick it up when it hits the bookshelves. Trey, who’s one of the single parent bloggers I’ve tracked down and put on the blogroll here, seems poised for some success with this. He’s even gotten an endorsement from writer Naomi Wolf, who called it “moving, funny, down-to-earth, sexy and delightful.”

So, best of luck to Trey. It’s on the top of my list.

An uncle died last week after suffering a stroke during the summer. We attended the wake Thursday night and the funeral Friday morning. When I said we I mean me, my wife and our 17-year-old son. My 13-year-old son chose not to attend - even though in the past he has.

At the wake there were some children, one as young as four. And it got me thinking about how families with young children handle death. There seem to be two schools of thought on this – well at least two, because there is a vast middle ground. One holds that it’s good, and natural, for young children to participate in these mourning rituals for relatives or family friends. Others believe, though, that attendence may be too upsetting for young children and it’s best put off until they are older.

I suspect it all depends on the child. See what they think about going to the wake and saying some prayers for the deceased, or – if you are not religious – spending some time thinking and talking about the deceased. Then gauge his or her reaction.
As long as the child is not terribly frightened by the prospect of a wake or funeral service, I think there is much to be gained.

For one thing there are lessons there for children and adults about the importance and power of family bonds. As I sat in church Friday morning I watched my uncle’s grandson, a young man in his early 20s, read a passage from the Bible. He teared up and twice stopped in his reading. When finished, he walked back to his seat and his father, my cousin, put his hand around his shoulder, pulled him closer and kissed him on the forehead. It’s a moment I think I’ll remember.

After the wake I spoke to my youngest son and told him that some of his younger cousins were there. Maybe next time, I said, he will come along with us. My son’s immediate response may not have been realistic, but still it was somehow perfect: “I hope there is no next time.”