From: Paige: To: My Four-Legged-Daughter ... I mean, Dog

Two nights ago I was awoken by Stella, my dog. Let me explain that: two nights ago, Stella woke me up because she was puking. Am I making myself clear? Stella’s puking woke me up because she was IN. OUR. BED.

That’s right. We’re those people. Our (seventy pound) dog sleeps with us. Feel free to judge us. I judge us for this reason, as well, but it’s a habit we can’t break.

What were we thinking? The first year of her life she slept on the floor, like most animals. (Actually, I guess most animals sleep outside. Stella would undoubtedly die if she had to spend a night amongst the elements.) Then, one morning, when we had just discovered I was pregnant, we woke up to find her cuddled at our feet. At some point in the night she had jumped in bed with us and found a cozy corner.

I’ll admit: I thought it was sweet. I figured she was using her dog senses to know I was pregnant and wanted to be close. She was being protective and loving, or so I assumed. In retrospect, this was my first bout of pregnancy brain. This seventy pound (ehh, seventy-five, post Molly) dog wanted to sleep near my unborn child? Not. A. Chance.

She was already spoiled in every aspect of the word, and this was just icing on the cake. She had her own spot on the couch, didn’t wear a leash on a walk, had an open door policy to our backyard, was a regular at the dog park, was the center of our Christmas card, and had been caught red-handed stealing food from our plates with no repercussions. Why shouldn’t she sleep in our bed, too? As far as she was concerned, this was her home, and we were the ones invading her space. Forget pack leader, Stella was “pack queen/czar/president/CEO” all rolled into one.

My view as I crawl in bed each night.

As you can imagine, Molly’s entrance into our family rocked Stella’s world. Her perfect little kingdom came crashing down as she saw us starting to put the needs of a nine-pound squishy human above her own. Sorry, Stella, did no one tell you? Did no one tell you how the world works for dogs like you?

Well, here it goes (better late than never, I guess): two people fall in love, buy a puppy, love the puppy, mildly obsess over the puppy, puppy becomes dog, love for dog grows, dog goes everywhere with couple, wife is expecting baby, take cute pictures of dog with pregnant belly, couple swears they’ll never be the couple that treats their dog different after baby comes home, baby is born, sweetly introduce dog to baby, fast forward two weeks: what dog?, does that dog really have to go out again?, stop barking!, don’t lick the baby!, oh, we are so that couple.

Yep, Stella made our pregnancy photos. Duh.

Meet your little sis, Molly. It all started with great intentions...

So, as I was cleaning up Stella’s vomit at 11:43 p.m. two nights ago, I realized this change of treatment isn’t personal. It’s not you, Stella, it’s me, and I think it’s time we have a DTR (Define The Relationship for those of you who have been out of the dating scene for over a decade).

You see, my four-legged daughter, you’re not to blame for the shift in your lifestyle or our relationship. You have done nothing wrong (minus the multiple times your barks have woken Molly up from a nap AND this whole throw up business). You are still a fabulous dog, but I just now have to use my energy for Molly. Yes, Molly, that tiny human who parades around like she owns the place (hmm…remind you of someone from a couple of years ago?).

But instead of having to apologize or explain myself every time you feel like a "second class citizen”, let me go ahead and map out all of my behavior (past, present, and future) that you may find offensive:

If Molly pees on the carpet or furniture, I will take a photo, laugh about it, clean it up, and blame myself for letting her run “free” for a few minutes.

If you pee on the carpet or furniture, I will groan, whine, complain, and ask you why you did this, assuming it’s some disobedient attempt to tell me you’re unhappy.

See here, Molly peed on my bed, and I thought it was cute
enough to take a picture before cleaning.

If Molly runs into the street, I will SPRINT after her while calling her name.

If you run in the street (and I happen to even notice), I will yell your name or shout “squirrel” to get your attention. There will be no sprinting.

If Molly doesn’t eat what I make for her, I’ll offer several options until she has a full tummy. She’s a growing girl.

If you don’t eat the food in your bowl, well, I guess you’ll be hungry.

And, if Molly and her friend decide to play in your food bowl,
I guess you'll be hungry then, too.

If Molly rolls over, takes a few steps, wears a cute outfit, or learns a new word, I will take a picture. I will then text this picture to the grandparents, email it to the great-grandparents, and post it on Instagram.

Unless you photo bomb any of these pictures or Molly decides to use you as a prop, it’s unlikely I will be taking your picture. And, on the off chance I do, Daniel is definitely the only one I’m sending it to.

Photo Bomb.

Prop.

Photo Bomb.

If Molly vomits in my bed at 11:43 p.m., I will be in full Dr. Mom mode. Thermometer, wash cloth, barf buckets, medicine, text message to the doctor, whatever it takes to make her feel better, I’ll be doing it.

If you vomit in my bed at 11:43 p.m., I will panic about the damage done to my bed spread, put you in the back yard, spot treat the comforter, tell Daniel to fill up your water bowl, and go back to sleep.

I think I’ve made myself clear here. I don’t want to be heartless, just honest. I could probably give several other instances, but you’re a smart dog, right? Don’t beat yourself up over this. It’s natural. It’s life. You’re a dog, Molly is a human. No, no, you’re not human. But, hey, as far as dogs go, you’re top notch, irreplaceable, the greatest, the sweetest, and the prettiest. But, as far as daughters go…well…umm…wasn’t it Teddy Roosevelt who said, “Comparison is the thief of all joy”? Yea, he had a point there.

But, you know what? Now, that I think about all of this and write out my sentiments to you, I realize I didn’t come up with this at 11:43 p.m. when you vomited in my bed. No, it was more like 11:56 p.m.

Yes, that was it. I had used a towel to pick up all of the “loose” vomit and placed it in another towel. Then, I began to spot treat my bedspread. When I came back to retrieve the towel that bore your projectile, I grabbed the wrong end. That’s right. I grabbed the WRONG end, and it all went flying across the room - spraying the carpet like a sprinkler. I gagged, mumbled a few sweet-nothings, and began to spot treat the carpet. Yes, so it was there, at 11:56 p.m., while I scrubbed puke out of the carpet, that I had my “a-ha” moment.

So, while I can’t promise you a future of long walks in the park without children or weekly baths, I can promise you a few things. I can promise I’ll continue to feed you (at some point in the day), take you on walks (when it’s not too hot or too cold), take cute photos of you (if they include Molly or any subsequent children), and, by golly, I’ll let you sleep in my bed (as if I have a choice). And, I promise that all of these things, while they aren’t the diva treatment of your past, they all still mean I LOVE YOU (like a dog).

From: Paige

P.S. Okay, okay, and I promise to try and get you in the Christmas card picture next year.