At relatively young ages, my children have had death and hardship explained to them. When they were 2 and 5 years old, their grandmother died. They were perhaps too young to really mourn this loss, but not too young to ask a million questions about it, such as, “Where is she now?”

What I wanted to say was, “Right there,” and point to the box that held her ashes, but I knew they needed more than that.

I gave them abbreviated theories about heaven and reincarnation and ended with, “But no one really knows what happens to us when we die. We just choose to believe what we’ve learned from church or our parents or what comforts us.”

“What do you believe?” they asked.

Having agnostic parents and little to no experience in churches, this is a big question for me. I want to believe in something else, but I don’t know what. So, I told them that. They accepted that answer and ran off to reenact coming back as butterflies and kangaroos.

The next death I had to explain was the death of my marriage. This, too, was loaded with emotion and quite confusing to explain. Their father and I still loved one another yet were making each other miserable and so decided to separate.

“Why don’t you just take a break for a few minutes, and then you guys will feel better?” my son asked.

In his world, all conflicts have been resolved in a manner of minutes. If he gets physically hurt while playing, he cries, screams, asks for a kiss and then resumes playing. If his sister refuses to give him back his beloved animal, he either yells at her, takes it from her or bribes her with a different toy. Again, the problem is solved quickly and feelings are mended.

I wish divorce was that easy.

Once I started dating, they saw me ride the emotional roller coaster but for the most part were unscathed. I kept my dating life as separate from my kids as possible, meaning they knew of the men I was seeing but didn’t have a relationship with him themselves.

I’m not so naïve as to think my emotional highs and lows didn’t affect them, I’m just saying they didn’t have a series of men entering and exiting their lives.

But then the pony fairy arrived.

After seeing a man for about six months, I relaxed my “no mixing” rule. We didn’t start having weekly family dinners together, but I did allow him to come over occasionally while the kids were around.

My daughter had recently inherited a “pretty pony” from a friend and a distant great aunt mailed her a knock off “pretty pony.” She loved those plastic demons as much as I detested them. Soon enough, she had inherited (OK, probably stole) a few more ponies with disgusting faux manes and had her brother in on the craze.

The man I was dating knew my “no commercial objects, hand me down clothing only, no Disney, no TV, PBS or scholastic videos only, minimal plastic, organic when we can afford it” rules, so he found the presence of the plastic pretty ponies hilarious. So much so, he procured about 30 of them (at Value Village at least, I drew the line at the environmental, not to mention emotional, damage buying new ones would cause) and took joy in hiding a few at a time for the kids to find when they returned from their father’s.

The kids loved the treasure hunt and surprise appeal of the ponies almost as much as they loved the ponies themselves. Every Tuesday they would ask if the pony fairy came and I’d shrug, “I don’t know; look around.” They’d race around the house and yard, squealing with each found pony.

But eventually, the pony fairy decided to leave. This not only broke my heart, it put me in the awful situation of having to discuss another confusing death to my children.

Of course their first concern was about the ponies.

“Will he still bring ponies over?” they asked.

“No.” And in a moment of weakness, I added, “But I can find some more ponies for you. “

“Why doesn’t he want to come over? Do you not like each other anymore?” were the next questions.

Again, I wish it were that simple. Instead, I had to explain by the time people become adults, their emotions and hearts are often much more confusing than kids' emotions and hearts. Meaning, sometimes even when someone loves someone, they feel as if they can’t spend time with them anymore. And that liking someone a lot can feel scary rather than good.

They said that didn’t make sense. I agreed, and then they asked, “Who’s going to be your boyfriend now?”

I laughed at the simplicity of the question but also took comfort in it knowing time and getting out there again are the best cures to a broken heart. That, and maybe a pony or two.

Corbin Lewars (www.corbinlewars.com) is a writing mentor, the founder of Reality Mom (www.realitymomzine.blogspot.com) and author of "Creating a Life" (Catalyst Book Press, 2010) and the forthcoming "After Glow." She will be teaching a memoir writing class in Ballard starting in September. Contact her for details.