We’re saying goodbye to two of our good bois today: Parker and Samson. It hurts, letting go. It hurts, seeing them suffer. It sucks having to be the one to decide when it’s time. I can see why God walked away from the whole “creation” mess. You can’t stop yourself from wanting them, loving them, needing them, delighting in them…and you can’t dim how much it hurts when their lives are over. I wouldn’t blame God one bit if he went back to clock-making and drank himself to oblivion.

I’m not God, though, and I’ve used up all my access to miracles. My heart has been on my actual boys and my youngest child. My four children. My husband. 

I love my animals, but if I’ve had any miracles to spare, I’ve been directing them towards my babies, wishing them health and peace and happiness and just joy and hope for the future. It’s not a good time for two of them. Two *real* life boys. One is a man, the other is close. Our family has been exploded, and I have done what I can to do what’s right. I’ll keep trying to do what’s right. I’m exhausted, emotionally. I miss my sons. 

They blame me for a lot. I suppose I should have expected this. Maybe if there’d been no pandemic…if I hadn’t had pneumonia just before it…maybe this, maybe that. Again with the God thing, right? Things could have been different, but they aren’t. They are just how they are.

What if I just radically accept that children grow up, teens go through stuff, genes turn on and activate certain behaviors, parents learn how to set boundaries, and life goes on? Relationships change, and sometimes that change isn’t graceful or wise or loving or patient. Sometimes (often, I think, when it comes to young men and their moms), change comes in the form of angry rebellion and thoughtless acts.

I’m not a teenage boy, though, so I don’t get to choose the childish, thoughtless response. I have to think about things. I have to do my best. I have to honor my emotions and recognize my fears, and then still do the right thing by these independent people. For one kid, it might look like telling him “no.” For the other, it might look like “yes.” But it’s not simple. It’s definitely not “one size fits all,” which is, I believe, a common metric for siblings to use to compare what their parents do.

I know I definitely compared how my mother treated me to how she treated my brother and my sister. My own kids (two of them) are doing that now. I have a relatively easy relationship with the other two, who still live at home. One will be leaving the nest sooner than later. The other is still in middle school. 

And I look at myself versus my mother in terms of parenting style. We are almost two separate species. It’s interesting, though, how many of my issues with my teens are similar to those I had with my mom. At least in the case of one child. I don’t have all this parenting stuff figured out, but I think there is something to genetics. I was rebellious and independent. I’d have done the same thing he is doing, if I could have. As much as he thinks he loathes me, he *is* me, in a different form. It’s hard. I cherish him and I’m angry at him, but I also understand him. And I don’t know if it will be possible for us to have peace for some time. I have the law on my side. I could shut down his experiment in being a teen grown-up, but it’s not that simple. I’m not sure that’s even right for him.

My two adult sons are functioning on different levels. One is asking me for more help than I can give. The other asks for very little. He’s probably ready to leave the nest at any time, but hasn’t felt any rush. He’s happy. The other is…well, I can’t say for sure what he is. Miserable? Angry? Happy? He’s delicate, and he’s removed himself from my sphere of influence, and he wants me to give him free reign to bring whatever energy of the day may reign into our home, whenever. I love you, adult son. I want what’s best for you. I can’t let you destroy the peace in this home. We’ve ALL been through a lot. Not just you. You want me to rescue you, and I’m not able to. ONLY YOU CAN RESCUE YOU.

And then, there’s the little one. They’re seeing the chaos I never wanted for any of my kids. Watching me deal with it. Taking notes. How do I prepare this little one for life? I’ve got to model the right thing, without ever fully knowing deep down if I’m doing the right thing. Just trusting. Thinking, praying, reading, hoping, and ultimately trusting my gut.

So that’s where I direct my miracle allowance lately. Towards those kids.

Today we are having two of the family dogs put down, and all week, Tim and I have gone back and forth. Should we? Should we not? It’s really no question today. We can see the suffering and the pain, and the refusal to take pain meds. The dogs are 12, which is the upper expected limit for their breeds. They’re not having fun. They’re not enjoying life. They’re existing through each day, having more and more pain, and accidents.

Our pets have been angels in our lives. My dogs have given me the affection and the love that I needed to cope with loss. They’ve protected me and given me security when I battled agoraphobia. They have calmed me through C-PTSD and played peacemaker when kids lost their tempers. Parker’s effect on Tim is something like Xanax. That dog has been his best friend for a long time. Samson has been my Chewbacca, watching my back and scaring away Darth Vader, UPS, and anyone else who came to the door to alter the deal.

I’m going to miss these dogs. These good bois. These furry angels. I hate today, for what it is. But I would hate myself even more if I let them suffer any longer. We were blind to how much they were suffering, before. Now that we see it, it can’t be unseen.

Just do the right thing, Leslea. That’s all you can do. That’s all I can do.

Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.