What I Learned About Parenting My Kid From Being a Dog Parent First
Last Saturday, I was half-sitting on the edge of a park swing set, pushing my 7-year-old Lila higher while my 3-year-old golden retriever Max chewed a splintered oak stick tied to the bench next to me. A mom I know from preschool drop-off sat down to wait for her own kid, nodded at Max, then at me, and laughed. “You’re so much calmer as his mom than you are as hers. Why is that?”
My coffee was half-cold, I’d spilled a little oat milk on my hoodie that morning, and I almost brushed her off. But then I thought about the previous week, when I’d spiraled for 20 minutes after Lila forgot her field trip permission slip for the third time in a month, and I realized she was right. I am a different parent to Max than I am to Lila, and that difference has taught me more about raising a kid than any parenting book I’ve ever read.
When we got Max as a puppy, he peed on our brand-new wool rug three times in the first week. I didn’t cry. I didn’t call my sister sobbing that I was a terrible dog mom. I just grabbed the cleaner, mopped it up, and started taking him outside every 20 minutes. I knew he was a puppy. He didn’t have full control of his bladder yet. He wasn’t doing it to spite me. But when Lila was potty training, she had an accident on my favorite comforter six months after she’d been mostly dry. I sat on the edge of the bed and got so angry I shook a little. I kept thinking I’d messed up, that she was being lazy, that she’d never get it right.
The more I thought about it, the clearer it got: we all have built-in, realistic expectations for dogs that we throw out the window the second we’re talking about our kids. If Max pulls hard on the leash when we pass a squirrel, I don’t think he’s trying to disrespect me. I don’t yell that he knows better and should be ashamed. I just stop walking, wait for him to sit and catch his breath, and start again. I know he’s got a brain wired to chase squirrels. He can’t help that. But a month ago, when Lila dragged her feet leaving the park because she wanted to play one more minute on the slide, I caught myself thinking she was doing it on purpose to make me late for dinner. I had to stop and ask: If Max stopped to sniff every blade of grass on the way home, would I call that intentional disrespect? No. It’s just what dogs do. And dragging your feet when you’re having fun is just what 7-year-olds do.
After that comment at the park, I started testing a little trick when I feel my temper rising. I pause for 10 seconds, and I ask myself: Would I react this way if Max did the exact same thing? It sounds silly, but it works almost every time. Last month, Lila was supposed to feed Max every morning as her weekly chore. Three days in a row, she forgot. I was already running late for work, my hand was on the doorknob, and I could feel my blood pressure spiking. I was about to storm into her room and yell that she couldn’t remember one single simple thing she promised me. Then I stopped. If Max dug up the new marigolds I planted in the backyard after I’d told him a dozen times not to, would I yell that? Would I call him a disappointment for forgetting? No. He’d have smelled a gopher, or gotten distracted by a butterfly, and forgotten all about the rule. Lila had gotten sucked into building a new Lego castle the second she woke up. She didn’t forget on purpose. She’s 7. Her working memory is the size of a golf ball. So instead of yelling, I knocked on her door and said, “I see you’re still working on that castle. Let’s go feed Max together, and tomorrow we’ll stick a neon sticky note right on top of your Lego base to remind you before you start building.” That’s it. No fight, no hurt feelings, we still got to work and school 2 minutes late instead of 15.
The other thing I’ve picked up from dog parenthood is adjusting the space instead of blaming the kid. If Max keeps getting into the trash can, I don’t yell at him every time he does it. I just get a trash can with a lid, or put it under the sink. It never occurred to me to expect him to resist the smell of chicken scraps every single time. But when Lila kept drawing on the dining room wall, that’s exactly what I did at first. I kept telling her not to do it, got mad every time she did, until I stopped and thought: If Max can’t resist trash, Lila can’t resist a big blank wall and a new pack of markers. So I moved a big roll of butcher paper and a caddy of markers right next to that spot on the wall, and I haven’t found a marker mark on the paint since. It’s way easier than getting mad every time.
I still mess up, of course. Last week, Lila lost her second library book in two months, and I blew up. I stormed around the house saying she never takes care of anything, that I was tired of paying for books she can’t keep up with. Ten minutes later, I was sitting on the couch thinking: If Max lost his favorite tennis ball in the lake, would I yell at him for being irresponsible? No. I’d just buy a new tennis ball. I went and apologized to Lila, and we went to the library together to pay for the book and picked out a new one with a fun neon strap we can hook to her backpack.
Right now, Lila just ran past me chasing Max, who stole a granola crumb off the coffee table. I still lie awake some nights overthinking Lila’s grades, or her friend fights, or whether I’m doing enough to help her grow up happy and healthy. I never lie awake worrying if Max is going to turn into a bad dog. I know he’s just a dog, being a dog, and that’s enough. This trick doesn’t fix all the hard parts of parenting. It doesn’t stop me from being tired or stressed or late. But it reminds me, over and over, that most of the things I get mad at my kid for aren’t personal. They’re just what kids do, same as chewing shoes and chasing squirrels are what dogs do. Some days, that’s enough to get me through to bedtime.
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