Trying to explain the notion of death to a toddler is – challenging. Luckily, parents, Disney is here to help. Olivia’s first glimpse into the consequences of dying came from “The Lion King.” I don’t let Olivia stare blankly at a television; we discuss everything she watches. I use it as a learning opportunity, making sure she understands what is happening onscreen and isn’t just watching the pretty lights and colors.

When Olivia first witnesses Simba trying to arouse his father Mufasa, who has succumbed to his fatal injuries, the natural question arises:

“Mommy, why isn’t Simba’s daddy waking up?”

I consider my answer carefully before proceeding.

“Well,” I begin cautiously, “Mufasa got hurt very, very badly. And sometimes, when you get hurt really badly, it makes you go to sleep and you can’t wake up.”

Olivia ponders this. “But when he gets better, he can wake up.” Her voice rises optimistically at the end of her sentence.

“No, Baby,” I answer softly. “He can’t get better. He can’t wake up because he died.”

“He died?” she contemplates this new word.

“Yes, he died, which means that he went to sleep and can never wake up again. That’s why Simba is sad, because his daddy isn’t going to wake up. And he’s going to miss him.”

“Yeah, Simba’s sad,” she nods. Her voice is soft and quiet.

I wait before saying more, not sure how deep she wants to delve. But the arrival of Timon and Pumbaa serves as a welcome distraction, so the conversation on this issue ceases.

Olivia does not forget about it, however, a truth which becomes apparent a few days later during some imaginative play.

“Mommy! Mommy! Come quick!” she shouts from the hallway.

“What? What is it?” I exclaim.

She points down the hall and shouts, “Look! Wildebeests! They’re coming! Run!”

“Oh, no! It’s a stampede!” I join in, and we run to the safety of the guest bedroom, climbing onto the bed, out of danger of being trampled.

It isn’t long after the wildebeests begin roaming our hallway, threatening to charge at any given moment, that they claim their first victim.

“Mom-my!” I hear Olivia call.

“Yes?” I answer.

“The wildebeests got me!”

“The wildebeests? Oh, no!” I smile in amusement, walking toward the hallway, to the sound of her voice.

“Yeah, they got me,” she says. “And now I’m dying.”

I enter the hallway at that moment and see Olivia lying on the floor at the end of the hall, against the door to my bedroom.

“Oh, no. You’re dying?” I whisper as I approach her.

“Yeah, I am,” she answers weakly, squinting her eyes, feigning sleep while still trying to see my reaction.

“Oh, my sweet Olivia,” I play along. “Don’t die.”

I scoop her into my arms and am simultaneously unnerved and impressed by the way she goes limp in an attempt to emulate someone who is weak and dying. How does she know these things? I carry her to her room, where I hold her in the rocking chair and plead with her to wake up. Moments pass, and then she opens her eyes, blinking them repeatedly as though she has been asleep for hours and is trying to adjust to the light.

“You’re awake!” I exclaim joyfully, smothering her in kisses.

“Yeah,” she smiles. “I didn’t die.”

“I’m so glad!” I tell her. “Now stay away from the wildebeests.”

***

Olivia was born into a house of dogs – four big dogs, all of them very special to us, of course. But my golden retriever has always held a special place in my heart. It was just Sebastian and me before my husband even came into the picture. He was my first “baby.” When we lost Lucky, the youngest of our four canine kids, last year, I was a little bit grateful to her for helping me prepare for Sebastian’s passing, knowing that his would be the most difficult for me. Lucky’s was hard; his would be harder.

At the ripe old age of 14, Sebastian was in pretty good health. Over the past few months, however, degenerative arthritis had begun to rear its ugly head. For example, he would occasionally have trouble while standing to eat. His hind legs would slip and slide away from his body, making him struggle to maintain purchase. So I would stand behind him, placing my feet against the outside of his, providing enough resistance to keep him upright. His troubles seemed intermittent, though, and, although I recognized these as signs that the end was drawing near, I did not realize how close we were. This morning, however, it became devastatingly apparent.

When I greeted “the pups” to feed them breakfast, Sebastian was unable to stand. He sat rigidly and stared down at the bowl in front of him. When he tried to stand, with my assistance, he fell onto his belly and seemingly gave in to defeat. I let him remain there, appearing comfortable, and held his bowl within his reach, tilting it toward him for easier access. He ate every bite.

After much, much effort, I managed to help Sebastian to his feet, but it quickly became apparent that getting up wasn’t his only problem. He could barely stand or walk now and even struggled to sit up straight, preferring to lie down instead. The reality of our situation was clear.

Once we spoke to our vet and made the necessary arrangements, I began trying to prepare Olivia for the loss she was about to experience.

All day long, as we spoil Sebastian with one treat after the next (bread, yogurt and ice cubes, to name a few), Olivia and I discuss the imminence of Sebastian’s passing.

“Do you see how Sebastian is having trouble standing and walking?” I ask her. We are in the kitchen; I’m kneeling on the floor next to Sebastian, petting him.

“Yes, but why?” she asks.

I’m already tearing up. “Well, because he’s old, Honey, and his legs are hurting, so it’s hard for him to use them.”

“But why is he old?”

How do I answer that? “Well, because he’s lived a long time. He was born a long time ago.”

There is no reply, so I continue, swallowing a lump in my throat. “Sebastian is really old for a puppy, and he’s hurting,” I explain. “So his doctor is going to come and help him go to sleep so he doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Is he going to die?” she asks.

“Yes, Baby. He’s going to die.”

I am crying. She starts crying.

“That makes me sad that Sebastian is going to die,” Olivia says through her tears, walking toward me with her arms weakly outstretched.

I hold her close to me, seeking my own comfort as well, but her sadness only compounds my own. I can’t let it consume me, though; I have to be her mom. I retrieve a tissue from my pocket and dry her cheeks where the tears have run.

“Hey, you know what?” I offer encouragingly. “When Sebastian goes to sleep and dies, we are going to be so sad. But he’s not going to hurt anymore, so that’s a reason to be happy, right?”

“Yeah,” she nods, frowning. “But I don’t want him to.” Tears flow from both of us.

There are several, similar exchanges throughout the afternoon, up until the final moment, and then again afterward, until bedtime. (I will not share details of Sebastian’s passing here, but know that it was very peaceful yet very sad.) I try my best to distract Olivia, and myself, from the sadness by revisiting the past, recounting various stories about Sebastian as a puppy, which she enjoys. When I tell her that we used to bathe Sebastian in her bathtub, she is very much amused.

“What?!” she exclaims with a chuckle. “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard of!”

Before I know it, it’s Olivia’s bedtime, and I am relieved because my head is pounding from all of the crying. I am ready for this day to be over.

Sitting in the darkness, rocking Olivia while we listen to our usual bedtime soundtrack (songs from the movie “Brave”), the sadness washes over me and again my eyes fill with tears. I try to choke back my sobs but fail.

“I’m sorry, Honey,” I tell her, kissing her forehead. “Mommy’s just sad about Sebastian.”

“Why?”

“Because I love him very much and I miss him.”

Then, demonstrating her vast wisdom yet again, my not quite three-year-old reaches up to gently stroke my neck and assures me, “It’s going to be okay, Mommy. It’s going to be okay.”

And I know she’s right. It is going to be okay. But right now the sting is painful, and I’m going to allow myself to feel it. Because the sorrow I am experiencing is just proof of how great a dog Sebastian was and of how much I loved him. He was a beloved member of our family, and I miss him terribly already. But, after some time, I know that the stinging will subside and Olivia’s words will ring true.

It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.

 

(October 18, 2015)

Each year, I look forward to October’s arrival, when temperatures finally fall below 90, the wind starts to pick up, and I can actually enjoy being outside with the sunshine on my skin, without feeling like an all-you-can-eat buffet for the neighborhood mosquitoes.

Olivia loves the outdoors, even when it’s not so pleasant, so I relish any opportunity to actually enjoy some outdoor playtime with her (as opposed to, in August, when I’m sweating, swatting bugs away, and plotting ways to coax her back inside).

Her newest outdoor hobby is collecting acorns that have fallen from the live oaks in our front yard.

“I found a green one!” she announces, holding it high above her head. “It’s pretty.”

“It is,” I agree.

“I’m going put it with the other ones. Be right back!” she calls out excitedly.

Olivia runs over to the porch and deposits the acorn onto the table among her impressive collection of roughly 50 acorns. Some are green, others black or brown, but they all share one similarity: each is missing its hat. (Cupule, if I’m being scientific, though I suppose “hat” would be an erroneous descriptor since the cupule refers to the base of the acorn. But I digress). I quickly discover that fully intact acorns are hard to come by. The cupule appears to attach to the nut about as securely as one’s hat attaches to the head. See? There you have it. Cupule = Hat. They likely disconnect immediately upon impact with the ground, even a soft bed of grass. I make it my mission to gather as many of these rare treasures as I can find. Upon realizing my excitement over each discovery of a fully hatted acorn, Olivia invents a new game whereby she intercepts the nut and immediately de-hats it, amid my pleas for mercy, all while wearing an adorably mischievous grin.

“Look, Olivia! I found one still wearing his hat!” I dangle it by its stem and hold it out toward her. I might as well be taunting a tiger with a raw steak. She rushes toward me.

“Oh, let me see!” She takes it, grinning, and yanks off the hat. “I did it,” she teases.

“No! You little rat!” I cry out in pretend anger. As she bursts into giggles, I snatch her and playfully pull her to the ground, tickling her ribs. “Oh, I can’t believe you took his hat, you little stinker!”

We repeat this scenario several times. It never gets old.

On the return walk from one of our acorn deposit trips to the porch, we become distracted by a lovely red and yellow leaf that had found itself on the sidewalk. Olivia picks it up, marvels briefly at its beauty, and then proceeds to tear it into tens of tiny pieces. Instead of returning to the acorn collection zone, she veers off to another area of the yard and begins to examine the myriad leaves scattered across the grass. She makes her selection. It’s small, brown and crunchy, having fallen from its branch some time ago.

“I’m going to crush you, leaf,” Olivia says.

I answer on behalf of the leaf in a small, squeaky voice. “No! Don’t crush me, please!”

Olivia promptly reduces the leaf to crumbs.

I pick up another leaf, also small, brown and long since dead. “I’m just going for a walk in the grass,” I squeak, teasingly moving the leaf across the yard, toward Olivia. “Ho hum, what a lovely day.” Then I stop abruptly. “Uh-oh! There’s Olivia the Leaf-Crusher!” I squeak anxiously. “Aah!!” I make the leaf turn and run away, hurriedly hiding itself under my bent knee.

Olivia giggles as she approaches. “Come here, leaf,” she says softly. “You don’t have to be afraid. I want to play with you.”

“Oh, okay.” I bring the leaf out from hiding. She takes it and cradles it against her tummy for a few seconds and then holds it out and starts to tear it. “No! You tricked me!,” I squeak in agony.

“Yes, I did,” Olivia answers matter-of-factly.

I grab another nearby leaf and animate it like the previous one. “Oh, no! It’s Olivia the Leaf-crusher!”

“Come here, leaf. I won’t hurt you,” Olivia promises.

“Are you sure?” I ask, in my leaf voice. “I heard you tricked my friend.”

“No, I just tricked that other leaf,” she replies, genuinely.

“Oh, okay.”

Olivia keeps her word, helping her new leaf friend walk about the yard for a bit. But this leaf, too, is in a delicate state, having turned brown and lost its pliability. When Olivia accidentally tears it, she is sorry immediately. I can read the disappointment on her face. Luckily, I have an idea.

“You know what, Olivia? I bet we can fix your leaf with some tape. Do you want to try it?” I ask.

“Yes,” she answers, nodding her head enthusiastically.

We go inside, and she watches as I carefully tape the leaf back together. When I’m finished, I hand it to her and declare, “It’s fixed.”

“Hooray! You fixed him!” she exclaims, prancing away with her new and improved (now adorned) leaf. “I’m sorry I broke you,” she tells it. “I’ll take good care of you.” She turns to me. “Mommy, he’s all better now! So much better now! And now I can dance with him!”

I smile back at her, glad for moments like these, when the littlest nothing can bring her such joy.

Olivia holds her leaf high in the air as she twirls around gleefully and sings, “You’re so much better now!”

***