Talking about Death and Dying with Children: Part 1

[After a months-long, drawn out and confusing process, our 12-year old dog, Mala, died this weekend.]

Here’s what I realized the hard part about grief is: Sitting with my mistakes. Forever.

It hurts to feel fully the sadness about my mistakes, with my dog, with my children, with my partner.  Grief brings up old grief (especially undealt with, unseen grief) and whole lot of feelings. Feelings, when we are grieving or when we are not, can be intense and unpredictable. There is at once an intense pain and a general numbness that happens with grief. Some people welcome the physical pain of a stubbed toe, for instance, because of the recognition and reminder that they are alive.

When we have children and are moving through grief, our children shine true for the blessings and teachers they are.

Their words drive to the simple heart of the matter. Someone was here. Now they are gone. They died. 

Their questions open up all the possibilities of the Universe. What happens when we die? Where do we go? Why are we here? Why do people do these things they do when death happens?

Their minds charge on. Curiosity and imagination take hold of death as fodder for inquiry and invention. Games like “Let’s pretend you are dead and this is the crematorium” come up.

Their lives continue. Laughter and joy flow from them, triggered by simple circumstances. Eat. Sleep. Play. Poop. Same as yesterday.

Indeed, children invite us to life, even in the face of death.

A child saying “It’s ok to cry, mama….”

A child coming over when daddy is crying and says “I love you, Daddy” and hugs him.

A child inviting “Let’s dance.”

The simple power of a child’s observation, compassion, connection….

We can walk with our children towards living.

We can walk with our children towards joy.

We can walk with our children towards authenticity.

We can move through our grief… 

Our grief becomes opportunity to dig deep and let go as we travel on our path of peaceful parenting. We make mistakes and name them honestly. We sit in our vulnerability of grief, not as an excuse but as a tangible reminder of our humanity.

Who can we be when we let go of perfection and choose connection?  Even as we sob in the presence of our children. Even after we bark at our children. Even as we do the hard, seemingly impossible work of balancing our needs and the needs of our family and home at the same time.

We can be human. Real. Whole.

When we find the waves of grief crash upon us, this is what we can model for our children in the space of the wake created.

Life.