I Know a Dog


I know a dog that thinks he is a person.

I know a dog that wouldn’t think of sleeping on a dog bed.

I know a dog that forced his humans to buy a king sized mattress.

I know a dog that can’t be bothered sharing a room with a newborn. Night waking is not his thing.

I know a dog that left his parents’ bed a few days after baby #1 was born but returned to their bed when she moved into her crib.

I know a dog that left the bed again when baby #2 arrived, but again returned when she moved to her own room.

I know a dog that left his human parents’ bed the minute baby#3 was conceived. His human mom didn’t even know she was pregnant. The dog knew. He thought they were insane. He still has not come back.

I know a dog that sometimes pretends the kids do not exist.

I know a dog that at night snuck into the girls’ bedroom, jumped in their beds and stole their favorite stuffed animals to carry around the house.

I know a dog that was bred to tree bears, but is scared of people with strange haircuts and hats.

I know a dog that acted out when baby #3 came home – no more kids – enough is enough.

I know a dog that in 2014 destroyed a princess lunch box, a cat lunch box, a dinosaur lunch box, two fox lunch boxes, a panda bear lunchbox and three fox backpacks.

I know a dog that when baby #3 was just a couple weeks old devoured a giant Costco size container of Jelly Belly jellybeans (64oz). The bloated dog wandered the house, whimpering for hours while his human parents worried. That night the minute the human mom sat on the couch to relax after getting three babies to bed, the dog jumped on her lap and spewed rainbow color vomit all over her and the sofa.

I know a dog that has had his tail pulled, face grabbed, been climbed on and bitten by barbaric small people but has never snapped back.

I know a dog that didn’t acknowledge the existence of baby #3 until he started eating solids.  Now he licks baby feet daily.

I know a dog that runs to the door when his mom puts on yoga pants and running shoes in hopes that he will get walk.

I know a dog that was born to run unleashed in the mountains.

I know a dog that more often than not walks sandwiched between two strollers around the park in the city.

I know a dog that could choose to hide in the closet and avoid the chaos of three children under five like his Basset Hound sister.

I know a dog that always chooses to be part of the action, lying in the center of stuffed animal picnics, hiding in blanket forts and always cuddling up for story time.

I know a dog that is depressed when his family goes on vacations without him.

I know a dog that didn’t like the children but now lies with them on the couch.

I know a dog that has the loudest howl in the neighborhood.

I know a dog that is lightning fast.

I know a dog whose cerebral cortex shuts down when tennis balls are around.

I know a dog that like his human dad became exponentially grayer with each additional child.

I know a dog that is indispensable at mealtime, cleaning all the crumbs and licking messy hands.

I know a dog that after four years has grown picky as to what food he eats off the floor at meal times.

I know a dog that got me walking even when it was 90 degrees outside and I was 41 weeks pregnant.

I know a dog that has gracefully been through the ups and downs of eight years of marriage and the birth of three children.

I know a dog that was at the top of the totem pole and is still pretty high up there.

I know a dog that now sleeps covered in stuffed animals on a certain four-year-olds bed.

I know a dog that will be magically woven into three children’s childhood memories.

I know a dog that pretends he doesn’t like the kids but accepts them in his family.

I know a dog that sometimes acts as the scapegoat for his human mommy’s wrath.

I know a dog that is fine with that.


Alone in a Room Full of Mothers

After leaving parent-tot class with my daughter, a feeling of inadequacy hung over my head. The dark cloud that haunts me on my lowest days of parenthood, despair, wondering why other moms seem to have it figured out while I drift through my days with no purpose other than to take care of my little brood.

The problem is, I’m unwilling to sacrifice my time with my children, but not having anything other than motherhood makes me feel worthless and less than the working mothers around me.  I am especially envious of all the part-timers, who maintain their careers by working 20 hours a week and still manage being home with their children.  How did these women find their jobs?  How come they had the foresight to embark on a career that allowed them to work part-time?  Why didn’t anyone warn me about work/life balance before I chose to go to law school?  Post-feminist society passionately believes that women can be anything they want to be, but no one addresses whether a chosen career path is compatible with having a family.  I know some mothers happily work intense hours outside the home, but pre-kids working 50+ hours, I struggled dropping my dogs at daycare, I never comprehended how difficult it would be to leave my children.

“Are you starting your own photography studio?”  I shyly asked another mother in class.  “I’ve been feeling that I need to start something too, do something separate from parenting, but I don’t know what to do, ” I confided, possibly revealing too much to a woman I did not know.

“Oh, I have a real job, this is just my creative outlet, you know, an escape for a couple of hours on the weekends.”  Suddenly – a wall – I’m hypersensitive, but her words “real job” hit me like a ton of bricks, quickly defining herself as a working mother and me as “other”. I recoiled, humiliated I felt myself shrivel. I am lucky to be home with my children, so it is embarrassing to struggle to feel good about myself while choosing to be a stay at home mother.

As an attorney, my work fueled me. I upheld the law, telling the human stories of those charged with crimes. Work consumed me.  I worked nights, weekends, and returned home exhausted with no energy for myself or for my husband.  I was unhealthy, medicated, and ate bi-weekly Jimmy John’s sandwiches.  Fortunately, my husband was in his medical residency, so he didn’t have energy either. I failed balancing my work, my health, my family, and my friendships.

After becoming pregnant, my job became unbearable.   The fear of panic attacks haunted me. I worried constantly about my juvenile clients and not about the baby growing inside of me.  Then my second trimester, I stepped off an airplane and blood poured through my pants.  Immediately, I was put on partial bed rest.  My body sent a message – this stress will hurt my growing family.  There was no part-time work option, no way to handle my anxiety, so I quit.  I intended to go back.

After the birth of my daughter, I didn’t want to return to my old job.  I wanted to give that energy to my family instead.  I dedicated myself to them. One year became two, then my second daughter was born.   My second pregnancy was a breeze. I was healthier mentally, physically, and emotionally. But I missed a part of me, the working part, the intellectual part, the part that contributed in the world.  I secretly marveled at my ex co-workers who balanced their work life with their family life.  They returned to work without being insanely jealous of those that cared for their children (again, I know how spoiled that sounds). I questioned why I did not feel confident enough to do the same.

Now, leaving a parent-tot class, I wonder why large groups of mothers often make me feel isolated?  Why our differences create chasms among us, while our similarities hide below the surface?  Why I feel insecure watching other mothers confidently stride through their days, balancing work and life? Why is it that sometimes there is nothing like a room full of mothers to make me feel alone?


SUDDENLY, editing this post, bells ringing inside my head, maybe the answer is, when we DEDICATE ourselves to staying home and taking care of our family, we need to DEDICATE ourselves to taking care of ourselves, as individuals too.  Writing, long dog walks, yoga, reading, time DEDICATED to me, fills me up and provides the purpose missing on those dreary days.