Both Things Can Be True
Puppies, parenthood and the gift of looking back.
On Sunday, as I pulled onto my driveway, my lovely neighbour, the one who helped us tackle our overgrown hedge last week, wandered over with a huge smile on her face.
She pulled out her phone to show me a photograph of the puppy who’ll soon be coming home to live with them.
We chatted about puppies, and our other neighbour’s enthusiastic new arrival, who Barney and I met last week. Then she laughed and said I was more than welcome to pop round for puppy cuddles whenever I liked.
“You can have all the fun without any of the responsibility.”
The more I thought about it, the more I decided that sounded like a rather excellent arrangement.
Don’t get me wrong. Barney was an utterly delightful puppy.
He bounded through life with oversized paws, endless enthusiasm and a determination to investigate absolutely everything. His cuddles were wonderful. We affectionately called his tiny razor-sharp teeth “the shark teeth”. He left the occasional puddle where puddles really weren’t welcome and needed constant supervision.
One of my favourite memories, and the one I’ve illustrated here, is of Barney and his “got me” grin from the little side table where he was nibbling one of the very few houseplants I’d actually managed to keep alive.
It was impossible to be cross with him for long.
I adored his puppyhood.
However, I have absolutely no desire to do those puppy days again.
As I remembered the delight and exhaustion of Barney’s puppyhood, it struck me how often life’s greatest joys arrive carrying demands we could never have fully anticipated.
In just a couple of weeks, our twin boys, Isaac and Ethan, will celebrate their twenty-first birthdays.
Their beginning was frightening.
There was an emergency delivery, resuscitation, and then Ethan’s sepsis, followed by years of hospital admissions as we tried to manage his breathing difficulties.
Later came a different kind of fear, as Isaac battled serious mental ill health and suicidality following the loss of our dear friend Chris.
For a long time, exhaustion became normal.
So did fear.
Some seasons feel as though they’ll never end.
But now, as we prepare to celebrate twenty-one years, I look at the remarkable young men they’ve become.
They are well.
They’re flourishing.
And each has a lovely girlfriend.
After years of living in a house full of boys, I have to admit I’m rather enjoying having two wonderful young women becoming part of our family story too.
And perhaps, for the first time, I can look back with a different perspective.
If someone offered me those years back, I wouldn’t take them.
And yet...
I wouldn’t give them back either.
Not because suffering is somehow good.
I would gladly have spared my boys every moment of illness, fear and struggle.
But I cannot separate those years from the people we were becoming within them.
Those years contained my boys.
Not only their fear and illness, but their laughter, courage, growing confidence and all the ordinary moments that quietly became precious.
They held family memories.
Unexpected kindness.
Friendships that carried us.
People who walked alongside us when life felt impossibly heavy.
I didn’t love the fear.
But I loved the people who met me there.
Perhaps that’s true for many of us.
Most of us will recognise seasons like this.
Caring for someone we love.
Living through illness.
Grieving.
Trying to hold a family together while wondering whether we have enough strength for the next day.
Those seasons often carry both immense joy and immense cost.
Looking back doesn’t require us to pretend every moment was wonderful.
Nor does it require us to wish those seasons had never happened.
Sometimes, with the gift of a little distance, we discover that both things can be true at once.
So I’ll happily accept an invitation for puppy cuddles when the new arrival finally comes home.
I’ll smile at the oversized paws, the gangly enthusiasm and the inevitable mischief.
And then...
before the next puddle appears...
or something expensive gets chewed...
I’ll hand the puppy back.
Because there are seasons we’re grateful to leave.
There are seasons we’re grateful to have lived.
And sometimes...
they’re exactly the same seasons.