On Becoming a Parent. Again.
My friends, it’s been too long since I’ve written. I still have a draft of my “I just published a novel!” post just waiting to be finished, but here I am many months after the publication date, and every time I work on it, I feel a little silly. But I’ll finish it up and post it soon. Pinky promise.
I’m writing to you now from a seat on the floor, my back pressed uncomfortably into our 100-year old floorboard trim (fir, for those wondering), one shoulder leaning into the black metal wire kennel holding the rapidly breathing form of our new puppy, Mabel. Sitting nearby, also on the floor, is the joy monster, her iPad turned down low enough so the sounds won’t wake Mabel.
Mabel is a Newfoundland puppy—a Landseer to be exact. It’s the same kind of dog Lord Byron had, the one named Boatswain (what a name, right?) for whom he wrote "Epitaph to a Dog.” That poem has been in my head all day, especially the lines:
“and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
Boatswain, a Dog”
It’s a great little poem and a better tribute to a being Byron obviously loved.
Our little girl Mabel is 8 weeks old and we just picked her up this morning. And I’m having again just about every feeling and thought I had when the joy monster was born.
This is our first dog, just like the joy monster was our first (and only) kid. And like with kids, there’s boatloads of information floating around regarding every aspect of our new puppy’s care. Where should she sleep? How should she sleep? When should she sleep? Where/how/when should she eat? Where/how/when should she potty? Where/how/when should she be corrected for behavioral issues? Where/how/when this, that, and every other thing. The internet and the library are both lousy with advice on these questions and more, but finding consistent advice has been harder. Like most things for new parents of a human (and, now that I think about it, most things in publishing), everyone’s got an opinion and almost none of them can agree.
My partner and I—like our experience when the joy monster was born—are already planning out who will wake up when during the night. We’re stressing out about whether we bought the right toys and towels and foods and bed. We’re taking pictures of Mabel doing everything and sending way too many of them to friends and family, who, by this point, are probably summoning their final reserves of “aww cute!” texts. Sorry not sorry.
And I’m sitting next to Mabel while she sleeps, not because she needs me to or because I’m doing anything to help, but because it’s nice to be near. Because I want to say with every word and movement and action: welcome home.
When my daughter was born, I would be the one to wake up at night and get her back to sleep when she had already eaten (the eating part was something I couldn’t help with, so I was responsible for every non-eating nightime need), and I remember many nights spent in the 2—3—4am range just sitting with the joy monster on my lap, her breath already evening out (at least as much as babies’ breath ever evens out) into sleep, her eyes closed, her fingers still clasped around mine. I remember how tired and uncomfortable I was in those times, and yet I always lingered in that rocking chair where we would sit with her, always wanting to steal away just another moment or two with my daughter. I wanted to say with my nearness: welcome home, I love you, I care about you.
And so I’m sitting here on the floor beside this new member of our family, with my daughter—now four-years old and no longer so needful of my nearness at night. She can fall asleep without being rocked there, without lullabies and shushes and sways and whatever the other 5 S’s are. It’s nice, even with the increasing pain in my back and butt, even with the odd angle I’m holding my arm at to type while jammed in between kennel and door. It’s nice just to be here, just to give and get the gift of nearness with these two.