Puppy Love

 

I wasn't planning on becoming a mom.  One day it just sort of happened.  When you see the pup that's meant to be yours, it's all very sudden.

As it turns out, becoming a mother (be it to dog or human) is exactly how they say it is: challenging.  Rosie though isn't a difficult puppy; it's just difficult to raise a puppy.  Especially whilst juggling a full-time job.  I worry about her...a lot.  So my daily agenda has experienced some changes as a result.  Lunches have turned into short strolls up and down my block, which has resulted in being on a first-name basis with the septagenarions of the neighborhood.  I timed to the minute the two routes leading back home to see which one would get me to "Rosie's house" (her crate) the quickest.  Not to mention the numerous last glasses of wine I've sacrificed in order to ensure getting home in a timely manner so I didn't have to return to whimpers.

One day when I was feeling an inadequate parent for not being able to spend enough time at home to master "sit," I subsequently thought "Thank God."  I am getting this 9-5 working mother guilt behavior, coupled with first-child over-bearing parental guidance over with now.  It's not that I wish Rosie a burdensome adolescence  (over-bearing parental guidance tendency).  I just feel it's less stressful to deal with the other dog-walking moms at the park talking behind my back than it is the carpool moms of human beings (9-5 working mother guilt tendency).

Beyond just maturing past playground gossip though I am learning to give my undivided attention to playtime with squeaky toys.  To not sweat the small things like chewed up leggings.  And maybe most importantly to let someone go ahead of me for the bathroom.  At the end of the day all any of us parents are really looking for are those special moments when they curl up on your lap on a cold winter night.  Right before they abruptly jump up and start splashing around their water bowl all over the kitchen.  How long until they graduate from obedience school?

DMILF doesn't have the same ring to it

A friend (it was Suzanne) recently chided (congratulated?) me on my new status as a "stay at home dog mom." A little more than a month after adopting our puppy and about three weeks since I quit my part-time gig, it's both ridiculous and accurate.

With ample free time on my hands and an adorable new fixation to fill it, things have gotten a little weird. I would, and have, referred to my dog and I as being "close."

 In no particular order, here are some of the stranger things I've done for/to my pup in the name of good parenting:

• Felt a totally strange sense of swelling pride when anyone refers to my dog as "handsome," "good-looking" or "studly," as if my own genetic material is to thank. (This happens all the time, by the way. He's a canine Ryan Gosling.) *BEAMS*
• As a person who despises baby talk of any kind, whether between parent and child, couples, or ESPECIALLY when perpetrated by those people who inexplicably believe others find it attractive when they speak like they're only partially developed . . . I hate that I talk to my dog in a mixture of gibberish and high-pitched coos of admiration. I make myself cringe. I cannot stop.
• Once, at a park, Gibbs got one of his raging boners of excitement and in the course of running around covered his red rocket with grass and other debris. Not understanding (and I still do NOT get this) what would happen to the muck once it receded back into his body — like, where does it go? That cannot be good for him — I looked around and furtively wiped his doggie dick off with my sleeve. I am confident that no one saw me only because I have yet to be reported for bestiality.
• We have a series of inside jokes and it is definitely possible that only I find them funny. For example, I often speak to my dog in private in an Irish accent (he has almost certainly never been to Ireland) and have given him several additional nicknames — Mr. Wiggles, Little Man, Boobie (???) — that probably only confuse him but which I consider to be special terms of endearment. 

But although I am self-aware enough to see and acknowledge the crazy, if this is wrong, I don't want to be right: