Lemons

We have another dog, named Seamus, who has gotten no face time (up until now with his big blog debut, complete with pic) because he is simple, sweet, and but for having a reputation for being too big and a blatant crotch sniffer, is pretty much the sweetest pooch I know.

He has never been an only dog before. And I actually know now what a depressed dog looks like, as he has lost his other half and doesn't quite know what to do with himself.

I never realized how much of his days were spent caring for and keeping tabs on Carlos. He slept where Carlos did, wrapped around him. He knew he was sick, I'm sure of it. And now he knows that he's gone.

Seamus, the kids...everyone is having a much harder time with this than I anticipated. Especially the kids. I guess I thought that because Carlos has been sick for most of the kids' lives, they didn't have the same memories and attachment to him that we did. But they do. They've both cried and cried, and I'm sure it's because the finality of death is frightening whenever it effects your home, regardless of whether it's a person or a pet. It rocks us "grown-ups" to the bone. It is even harder on the kids. They are confused and scared and hate it that he's gone.

I hate it for them.

These are the life experiences through which I am learning to navigate as a parent that terrify me. I am so weak when it comes to coping with change, especially when death is involved. It is only in the past few years I've arrived at a point where I've begun to wrap my brain around the concept, that it is inevitable and will be everyone's fate. Now my kids are looking to me for answers, and I feel like a kid myself, not completely understanding it all, feeling afraid of it and certainly doubting the answers I'm giving to them. I don't like to lie to them...but I am faking my strength around them in order to insulate and isolate them from feeling the magnitude of it too young, too soon. I don't know if it's right or wrong to operate from that place where my kids are concerned. But that's what my instinct is telling me to do, at least through this period of grief over our dog. So I defer to my instinct whenever I'm unsure of what to do as a mommy.

I know from past losses that the grieving process is aided by the passage of time. But as a couple, as a family, we have not felt the passage of one of our "pieces" so poignantly. This is the closest it has come to us. And it hurts deeper because there is suddenly an emptiness here that we have never known. Now to watch even Seamus clearly experiencing a version of grief is painful, both as an observer and as a caretaker.

Sometimes life really does hand you lemons. And when it does, there are times when, rather than making lemonade, I'd like to hand the lemons back and tell life to take them and shove them. That's sort of where I am this week...because Carlos is gone, then friends of ours lost their mother/mother-in-law on the same day. And I am not supposed to go here because she reads this blog religiously and I do not want to make her feel bad...but my friend who I consider to be my sister (Jaclyn) and her family are relocating to Southwest Florida. This will be hard. And, much less importantly, but nonetheless aggravating as all hell, Lizzy hates the gym babysitting room and screams until snot is covering her face (used for deliberate and dramatic purposes) so that I leave with her and Meg without actually working out. Which is why I have to cancel my membership, because we can't afford for me to be paying for a membership that I'm not using. Even though I loved it while it lasted and was such a better mommy for having boosted my endorphins and taken some much needed "me" time. But I guess all good things come to an end. That is this week's title.

Knowing that much, I now must decide whether I'm making lemonade. Or if I'm just going to wave the white flag for a few days and pretend like I'm not here. The decision will most likely be based upon whether or not anymore stuff happens that I consider to be crapola.

That's a warning, Life. Cut the crapola.