Parenting Comparison: What Being A Dog Parent Taught Me About Raising My Kid
The Lego dragon wail went up at 8:17 Saturday morning, right as I found the chewed toe hole in my only running sneaker. I stared at Max, our two-year-old golden retriever, who was curled on the crumb-strewn rug giving me his best “I’m a soft good boy who would never do wrong” eyes. I sighed, pulled the sneaker out of his reach, said “bad chew” quiet and firm, and sent him out to the backyard for five minutes to cool off. Then I turned toward Mia, my 7-year-old, who was upending the toy bin so hard blue blocks bounced off my shin, and I felt the familiar hot snap of irritation rising in my throat. I almost yelled. Then I stopped.
Why was I about to yell at her, when I didn’t yell at Max? Max destroyed my $80 sneaker I needed for a 5K that afternoon. Mia just lost a toy she’s had for six months. But I didn’t get mad at Max; I got mad at the situation, and at myself for leaving the sneaker on the coffee table where he could reach it. Why was I about to get mad at Mia?
We got Max 18 months ago, and I did the obligatory positive reinforcement dog training class at the local pet store. The instructor, a woman in flannel who had three border collies of her own, said something on the first night that stuck with me. “Most of you are here because you think your dog is bad. Ninety percent of the time, it’s not your dog’s fault. It’s your fault for leaving the thing they want where they can get it, or for expecting them to have the self-control of a grown human when they’re still a kid with a nose that works 100 times better than yours.” I typed that into my notes app, and I never once forgotten it when it comes to Max.
When Max got into our snack bin last Halloween and ate half a bag of chocolate mini bars, I didn’t yell. I panicked a little, drove him to the vet, waited out 24 hours of messy accidents in the garage, and then bought a lidded bin and kept it on the top shelf. It never occurred to me that he did it to make me mad. He smelled sugar, he’s a retriever, that’s what he does. I was the one who left the bin on the edge of the counter.
But two weeks before that, Mia left her math homework folder on the same counter, I knocked over a full glass of iced tea all over it, and I yelled at her for being careless. I said she never listens when I tell her to put her stuff away. I made her stay up late to redo the whole worksheet, even though she was crying. Why did I do that? I assumed she left it there to annoy me, that she was being irresponsible on purpose. That’s the line I never cross with Max, but I cross it with Mia all the time.
After that Saturday morning with the Lego dragon, I started testing a little trick. Before I react to a mess, a forgotten thing, a mistake, I ask myself one question: What would I do if this was Max? It sounds silly, but it works. That day, instead of yelling at Mia for making a mess and losing her dragon, I wiped my hands on my sweatpants and said “I’ll check under the couch, you check behind your art easel. We’ll find it.” It was under the couch, anyway—Max had dragged it there to chew on the wings. We fixed the wing with a little hot glue, no fight, no hurt feelings.
The trick changes how I problem solve, too. With Max, I never just blame the behavior. I adjust the environment first. If he keeps jumping the fence to get to the neighbor’s chickens, I don’t call him a bad dog, I add a second strand of wire to the fence. So when Mia kept forgetting her reading folder at home three weeks in a row, I didn’t yell about irresponsibility. I bought a $2 plastic hook and screwed it into the trim right by the front door. Now her backpack has to hang there every night before she can watch TV. We haven’t had a forgotten folder since. That’s the thing I never thought of before—if my kid keeps messing up the same thing, I don’t have to blame them. I can change the setup first, just like I do for the dog.
I still mess up, of course. Last night I snapped at Mia for leaving her sticky popsicle plate on the side table next to my book, right after I’d turned the page and got sticky all over my thumb. I felt bad five minutes later, because if Max had knocked my book on the floor and slobbered on it, I’d just wipe it off and laugh. I’d never yell at him for being a kid. It’s hard to shake that habit of assuming kids know better, that they’re doing things on purpose to make our lives harder. It’s even harder when you’re tired, and behind on laundry, and you just want 10 minutes of quiet.
The trick doesn’t fix everything. Max still chews shoes when he’s bored and I forget to leave him his antlers. Mia still leaves her rain boots in the middle of the hallway and I still trip over them sometimes. Some days I forget to ask the question, and I still snap. But more often than not, that one silly little question pulls me out of that headspace where I’m waiting for my kid to misbehave on purpose. It reminds me that she’s still learning, just like Max is. She doesn’t have the impulse control or the life experience I have, and mistakes aren’t personal.
That’s all it is, really. Just a silly little reminder from my dog that parenting, whether it’s for a human or a golden retriever, works a lot better when you stop assuming bad intent and start meeting them where they are.
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