Step by Step Parenting

When I was pregnant, everyone warned me that once the babies were born, I would hate my dog.

I heard story after story of burnt-out, exhausted mothers who couldn’t stand the smell of their dog, the sound of their dog licking his paws, the way the dog always seemed to be standing right where she needed to be, or the anger she felt when the dog barked and woke the baby… right after the baby had fallen asleep.

Worse than those annoyances, though, I heard horror stories, as well. Dogs that grew aggressive once babies were in the house. Snapping at little fingers, growling at babies.

All of the possibilities scare me. It has hard to imagine my sixteen-pound poodle mix dog turning vicious. It was also hard to imagine me hating her.

When my husband and I got married, we already had three kids: he had two from his previous marriage, and I had one from my previous marriage. We were fortunate enough to be able to sync our custody schedules, but that meant that every other week, our house was empty. Very empty. My husband worked long hours at the time, too, and I found myself growing increasingly depressed and lonely. Naturally, the solution I came up with was to get a dog. Plus, the kids would be thrilled, so it would be a win-win, right?

Enter Ginger. I knew the second I saw her that she was meant to be apart of our family. Once we brought her home, her and I quickly became best friends. My human best friend had also adopted a puppy a few months earlier, so we lugged our furry companions around everywhere. We took them hiking, to the local dog park bar, to actual bars, to restaurants with patios. I still missed the kids loads when they were with their other parents, but having Ginger made the loneliness infinitely more bearable. Before Ginger, I had never understood why people would get so attached to their dogs, even going as far as to call themselves “dog mom” and make it their whole personality. But once Ginger joined our family, I got it.

I found out I was pregnant towards the end of June, a little over two months after getting married, and right before Ginger turned six months old. I had heard some people say how they think their dog could tell when they were pregnant, how they noticed a shift, but that didn’t happen with Ginger. I reasoned it was because she was so young. She just seemed happy for the extra snuggles, as I quickly became practically bedridden, and would remain so until halfway through my pregnancy.

As my stomach grew (and with twins, it grew), so did my love for Ginger. She was there so every nap, every middle-of-the-night bathroom trip. She followed me from room to room, as if she was keeping an eye on me. There were many a times I would be on the bathroom floor, sick and in tears, and she would come lay next to me, letting me run my fingers through her soft fur while I came to. Despite how uncomfortable and ill I was, her presence brought a sense of comfort.

That is not to say that every single second was enjoyable. There was the time that she escaped from the car while I was dropping off my kindergartner at school one morning, and I had to chase her around the school grounds in pajamas and my fuzzy slippers. What a sight that must have been for the other parents! Then there was the time she jumped on my bed — my white duvet, to be specific — and made eye contact with me before she squatted and peed. But she was still a puppy herself, not turning a year old until the month before the twins were born. And I’m sure due to my exhaustion, there were times I should have taken her out but didn’t, or should have walked her more that day, but couldn’t. So I forgave her, and she forgave me.

In the middle of February, we made it: it was only a week before my scheduled induction. My human best friend and I had arranged awhile ago that she would watch Ginger while I was in the hospital, and that when she came to visit me, she would bring some of the baby blankets back with her for Ginger to sniff and get acquainted with before she came home. I knew Ginger would have fun, as her and my friend’s dog, Willie, were basically siblings, but this would still be the longest I had gone apart from my dog.

By time we were reunited a little over a week later, Ginger was pretty disinterested in the babies, and instead was just thrilled to see me again. Thankfully, I had avoided needing a C-section, so the second I was her, I was able to easily squat down on the ground and shower her with pets and scratches and praise. She eventually slowly sniffed each baby, tail wagging, and moved on. When they cried, she simply cut me a look that seemed to say, “Seriously?” but that was all.

She adjusted fine to the postpartum days, but I did not. The first few months were blissful enough, but eventually, the dreaded postpartum rage set in, just like it had when I had my first daughter. Knowing what it was made it easier to manage, but my anger made me angry that I was mad, which then frustrated me further. It was easier to manage than the first time around, but still felt crushing some days, as if it took every ounce of self-control to just… ignore it.

I was storming down the stairs one day, escaping to the kitchen to cool off after placing each baby safely in a crib. Nap time seemed a distant memory at this point. I was ranting out loud to no one in particular, complaining about how I would never sleep again and couldn’t take it anymore, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something that made my heart snap in two: Ginger, cowered in fear, hiding under the dining room table.

She didn’t know why I was mad, and that it wasn’t aimed at her. She simply sensed I was angry, and it scared her. I felt awful. I set aside the bottles I had been carrying, crouched to the ground, and called her over. She approached cautiously, but tail wagging, and collapsed at my feet for belly rubs. I happily obliged until I felt calm again, then proceeded to attempt to get the twins to sleep. She followed me back up the stairs, maybe curious to see what all the ruckus was about, and parked herself right at the door of the nursery, as if on guard.

From that day forward, every time I felt that postpartum rage begin to bubble, I would look around until I could see Ginger. Sometimes, I would call her over, other times, I think she sensed I needed her, and she would come curl up right next to me while I changed diapers and fed babies. Every time I needed a five or ten minute break to reset my nervous system, there she was, ready to cuddle on the couch or go outside for a quick walk around the block.

Watching her relationship grow with the babies as they got older just made it better. She tolerated all of their cries and yells and pinches and grabs with patience and licks. No matter how fascinated the twins seemed with grabbing fistfuls of her fur to try to bring to their mouths, she let them, and still chose to lay right next to them time and time again. My husband and I began to joke that maybe Ginger thought she was one of them, because wherever they were, there she was, too. Whatever they were trying to do, she did, too. We told her, “Good girl!” and “Good job!” every time she survived another brutal attack from a five-month-old baby, but Ginger took it all in stride. She seemed to love when the babies would try to talk to her, licking their faces back as they cooed and babbled and blew raspberries in her direction.

I don’t write this to discredit how much some moms struggle with their pets once they bring a baby home from the hospital. Postpartum pet aversion, just like postpartum rage, depression, or anxiety is real. I simply write this to let nervous expecting moms know that there’s another reality, too: one where you love your pet more, not less, and your pet love your babies, and your babies love your pet, and everything is totally fine.

And to my sweet, sweet puppy: I love you bunches, and one day, I’ll find a fenced in grove of trees with squirrels abound, and I’ll let you off-leash and you can finally chase after squirrels until you can’t run anymore.