My son is 3 years old, and I don’t have the talent to explain to children in pink tones.
Yesterday we returned home, on the stairs in the entrance, a dead and scattered butterfly moth is lying.
My mother is a butterfly!! What is it, and what is it?? to
I: I was frozen, it was already very cold for her, and she died.
She doesn’t have a coat like you.
Son: Why not?
I: Because butterflies can’t sew.
Why don’t they know?
Man: Because they don’t have a pencil with fingers.
I: And the brain.
Oh, and there is a head!! to
I have a head, but there is no brain in it.
Why the head of a butterfly?
I: Because she eats it.

The child understood everything, and the husband had to reassure him.