Category Archives: Parenthood

New Motherhood: An Uphill Climb

I recently found the journal I somehow managed to keep during our daughter’s first year.  It confirms my vague, uneasy memories: learning to be a mother was a hard slog.

 

My first months of motherhood were no doubt made more arduous because I had absolutely no previous experience with infants. While I’ve always enjoyed toddlers and preschoolers, I’ve never been drawn to babies, who appear frighteningly small and unfinished. When I got my own baby, I didn’t think I’d missed much.

The first hurdle was nursing, which brought with it a host of anxieties and difficulties (and conflicting advice by every nurse or lactation consultant at the hospital). Suddenly I was a machine (and an overworked and badly functioning one, at that), for feeding. All I did was nurse, worry about nursing, or try to recover from nursing, only to have to begin again. During that first week, I remember that my mother seemed to be constantly standing outside the bedroom door, holding a screaming, red-faced D. “It’s been three hours, and she’s hungry again.” I thought I had just dozed off. Once I got the hang of effectively feeding my baby, there was still the reality of it, the giving of myself endlessly to this tiny screaming tyrant. The word parasite flickered occasionally through my mind. There is great isolation in being a nursing mother.

Just as I had always suspected, a baby is an awkward, uncooperative little creature, as small as a doll, but totally lacking its reassuring complacency. A baby is an anti-social rebel. She doesn’t want to wear those diapers, that onesie, or that darling outfit from Aunt Claire. She especially hates those socks, and she rubs her feet together tirelessly until she works them off so they’re lost in the food court at the mall. She doesn’t want that bath. She can’t abide being locked into that straitjacket of a car seat. She fights against everything but food. Sometimes she even fights against food. For such a diminutive being, her screams are astonishingly ear-splitting.

I don’t blame her. I realize she’s uncomfortable, that she has no knowledge of social graces or expectations. She has no words to tell us what bothers her. The world outside the comfy, watery womb is filled with adversity, noise, frustration, and unanswered needs. I know she doesn’t enjoy the never-ending cycle of nursing, burping, spitting up, pooping and diaper changing any more than I do. I feel for my baby. I was much like her, as my parents have frequently told me. I cried most of the time, except when I held my breath and passed out. Still, empathy and understanding don’t make the whole mothering process run any more smoothly.

It gradually gets easier, though.  Before long, the moments of wonder and joy begin to catch up with and even exceed those of annoyance and pain.  The uphill climb is worth it, in a big way.

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Our daughter, ten days old. She doesn’t look like a rebel or a savage, but looks can be misleading.

Thirteen Years Ago: Home with our New Baby

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Each January I look back on those first few months with our new baby, and I’m thankful they are in the past. No doubt this sounds heartless to some, especially to those who are not yet parents but hope to be.

It doesn’t mean I don’t love and appreciate her.  Our daughter is, and has always been, a profound blessing. All my life I had known that I wanted a child, and she was the realization of that long-held dream. She was an amazing, wiry little creature with a remarkable energy. Our first ultra-sound image had shown her upside-down and scissor-kicking, so we weren’t surprised. She did leg lifts in her plastic hospital bassinet and held her head up unsupported within hours of birth. Her enormous, other-worldly blue eyes were constantly surveying her surroundings. She wrinkled her forehead in a way that made her look all-knowing and smug, yet sweet. Her blonde hair was as fine as dandelion fuzz, and her tiny fingernails appeared newly manicured. She slept with her arms outstretched over her head, her fingers moving gracefully and expressively in her dreams. She was a miracle.

The first day home with her was wonderful. When we returned from the hospital, my parents were waiting in their car in front of our townhouse, having driven all night from Atlanta. My husband and I were the proudest of parents, showing off our beautiful baby to her grandparents, who agreed that she was perfect. She slept for several hours that day, which, we would learn, would be highly uncharacteristic.

I had dozed only fitfully in the hospital, and I finally got some real sleep that first night at home. I slept deeply enough so that when I awakened to an unpleasant whining sound, I had no idea what it was. Puzzled and annoyed, I asked H, “What is that noise?”

“It’s our baby,” he replied, rather too firmly.

That was the last time I failed to recognize our daughter’s cry.

After that I began sleeping the half-sleep of the new mother, alert both to the baby’s sounds and, even more alarming, to the lack thereof. One night, hearing only silence, I peered into the bassinet in the dimness of the room. Suddenly I realized those big eyes were staring back at me, and I almost jumped. Our daughter was still an alien presence.

The difficulties of early motherhood set in with a vengeance. I loved my baby instantly, but getting used to dealing with her persistent and shifting needs was an exhausting challenge.

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Our daughter, at 5 days old, under the Christmas tree. As quiet, for a brief moment, as the dolls.

Exercises in Extreme Gift-Wrapping

Each year at Christmas, my husband presses on in his family’s tradition of extreme gift wrapping. He grew up in a family of resolutely creative wrappers, in which every gift receives special holiday treatment, from the lowliest pair of socks to the largest, most cumbersome, difficult-to-wrap object. Major appliances have been gift-wrapped by his family. They welcome, even seek out, challenges in wrapping. They invest considerable time and energy toward disguising the gift. Tiny items are encased in enormous boxes, and objects with a characteristic, recognizable shape are concealed in containers of an utterly different form. The wrapping paper is exuberant in color and pattern.

My side of the family has a fundamentally different approach to wrapping gifts. My mother has a designer’s eye, and her emphasis has always been on décor. A connoisseur of ribbon, she chooses gift wrap to accent the color scheme of the room. Gifts under our family tree were beautifully packaged and adorned, but not as plentiful as in H’s home. If an item might be of use during the holiday season, it was likely to be presented early, unwrapped, as needed. There was no concern for disguising gifts or playing wrapping games. A book was wrapped as a book, not a refrigerator. And little things, those that were needed and appreciated but not overly special, simply appeared, unwrapped.

 

The differences in our two family’s wrapping philosophies recall our approaches to the recognition of birthdays and other special events. H’s family remains determined to celebrate all occasions, and inventive wrapping is a big part of the celebration. My parents continue to give thoughtful and lovely gifts. But they regard the birthdays of adults, as I’ve said before, as events best mentioned quietly, if at all. I grew up hearing the admonition: “Don’t get beside yourself.” In the eyes of my parents, showing too much enthusiasm is bit unseemly; it’s something to be avoided, or at least denied. H’s family, on the other hand, is happy to get beside themselves. During birthdays and on Christmas, they revel in it.

Now that I’m familiar with both approaches, I can appreciate the merits, and the drawbacks, of each.

This year my husband’s extreme wrapping scored especially high marks. He enclosed three gifts for our daughter in tubes used for forming concrete, 48 inches long and up to 16 inches in diameter. An inexpensive wrapping solution with a big wow factor. None of the objects were vaguely cylindrical in shape, of course. The first tube appeared by the tree early in the morning, three days before Christmas. On the following two days, another, successively larger, tube appeared.

Our daughter was merrily intrigued, and she responded in kind. She searched in the basement until she found a suitably unusual container for one last gift for her dad: a tall plastic laundry hamper. She took it to her room and, using two kinds of paper, an abundance of tape, and an uncharacteristically substantial degree of patience, performed a wrapping coup. The shape may perhaps best be described as an oval trapezoidal prism.

On Christmas morning, the tubes and the hamper were the final gifts unwrapped. Both H and D were exultant as they pulled off paper and worked their way to the gifts inside the strange packages. The excitement was catching. Not even my parents, who are here with us this Christmas as usual, were immune. I think I can speak for both sides of the family now when I say that once in a while, getting beside yourself is recommended.

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The first two mystery tubes appear.

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The three tubes, with one tiny tube on top.  My shoe-storage package is in front.

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The oval trapezoidal prism.

Shoe Storage, The Gift that Keeps on Giving

Toward the beginning of this Christmas season, my daughter printed out a Family Christmas List, with spaces for gift requests from each of us.  She posted it in a central location in the kitchen.  At first I couldn’t think of a single item for the list.   I have enough stuff.  And on those occasions when I do need something,  I generally prefer to pick it out myself.  Soon I thought of one thing:  a nice winter scarf suitable for dog-walking.  I’ve had the same one since 1987.  While it’s still perfectly good, another would be welcome, and D has a good eye for scarves.  Somewhat later, in a flash of light bulb inspiration, my dream gift popped into my head:  shoe storage!  This, indeed, may be a gift that keeps on giving.

 

Our house, as I’ve noted before, is closet-challenged.  It’s a four-square farmhouse built in 1920.  Closets and bathrooms were added during the early 1970s.  Orange shag carpeting was also installed in copious amounts at this time, one reason the house remained on the market for so long before we bought it ten years ago.  We have a wide center hall but no optimal storage on the first floor unless one counts the closets in a bathroom and in an office that doubles as a bedroom when overnight guests are plentiful.  Neither space is ideally located, to say the least.

For a family of three, we have an inordinate number of shoes, especially those for outdoor activities.  We have shoes for running, for gardening, for hiking, for use in snow, in rain, in rivers and oceans.  We have high boots, low boots and medium boots, most of which are typically caked with mud and leaf debris.  We have many pairs of old, scruffy shoes saved for the messiest of uses:  walking through mucky fields, exploring the creek, climbing trees, working in the garage or the basement, etc.  Some are very nearly too small or worn out but still may be of use in a pinch, if, say, all our other shoes were swept away in a tornado.  These are too shabby to be given away to any charitable organization, but too good, it seems, for outright disposal.  As H’s father would say, we have back-ups for our back-up shoes.  And then there are the comfy shoes, the legions of slippers, rarely worn.  They stay with us, it seems, out of habit and for the sake of occupying space.

Our  shoes tend to congregate in the kitchen around the back door and in the hall by the basement door.  Like so much household detritus, they evidently have the ability to multiply spontaneously.  Opening either door is impossible without first rearranging great piles of shoes.  I dislike this process as much as I dislike moving the little things off the kitchen table.

I’ve been complaining about our lack of shoe storage for nearly as long as we’ve lived here, to little avail.  I usually deal with it by stomping around angrily and muttering derogotory remarks about my beloved family members while hauling their shoes upstairs or downstairs.  This does not make me happy.

I finally realized that the problem might be solved by incorporating it into a gift request.  My husband and daughter take gift requests very seriously.  They excel at tracking down gifts (and they enjoy gift wrapping challenges, but that’s another story.)  Several years ago I began asking that the impatiens be planted as a Mother’s Day present.  Therefore, on Christmas morning, I opened a substantial package containing varieties of shoe storage:  hanging racks, standing racks, storage boxes with hinged lids, others that defy easy description.  On December 26, shoe storage solutions were installed and in use.  I was delighted.  Change had arrived.

H and D have adjusted swimmingly; their shoes are tucked away as intended.   The problem now seems to be that I can’t get used to the new system.  I keep leaving my shoes by the doors to the kitchen and basement.  I have received two tickets from the Home Improvement and Neatness Patrol for illegal shoe deposit.  I’m going to have to get with the program.  I can’t be responsible for the failure of shoe storage; I want that gift to keep on giving.

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  My shoes, conspicuously all alone.  I resolve to do better!

Cape Cod Shell Angels

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My husband’s family has vacationed in Cape Cod since he was a little boy. They cherish their time on the Cape. It’s a Family Tradition marked by capital letters and exclamation points. They will battle illness and adversity to reach the Cape. Fortunately, I appreciate the unique environment as much as they do. We began taking our daughter there when she was two. Her love of the Cape was immediate, as natural to her as breathing. H’s parents were immensely pleased with the discerning wisdom of their young granddaughter.

Our quaint little rental cottages look out across the bay to the Pilgrim Monument in Provincetown and the lighthouse at the tip of the Cape. We feel privileged to spend time each summer in this transitional, luminous, glorious spot. As in such magical places as Cornwall, Mont St. Michel and Key West, the expected balance of land and water has shifted. The land resembles a narrow ribbon drifting on the water. The sky is vast. The light is awe-inspiring, ever-changing.

The land itself is in constant flux. I was unprepared for the quiet drama of the bay. Growing up, my beach experiences were limited to the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic coasts of Georgia’s  islands. Both are beautiful areas, but they lack the sharply defined tidal contrasts of Cape Cod Bay. Every year without fail, soon after we arrive, a knock at our screen door signals Grandpa’s delivery of our copies of the tide chart, our guide to daily life. At low tide, the flats extend nearly as far as the eye can see. The shallows glimmer like silver in the shifting sunlight. When the tide begins to rush in, the change is at first almost imperceptible. Before long, though, the water is swirling around us, its determined, unstoppable force clearly evident. At least once every day, we watch as the expanses of sand shrink into islands, smaller and smaller, before they become completely submerged again.

The bay is not a prime beach for shelling, but occasionally it offers up its particular treasures. Every so often, during an especially low tide, scallop shells dot the flats like pale, muted jewels, their colors subtle and austere. Naturally, my daughter and I collect them. Over the years we had acquired several sand pails full before we discovered an ideal, simple way to transform the shells into appropriate mementos. With the addition of a few beads and smaller shells, they became Christmas angels. (Once again, the hot glue gun allowed us to turn out a host of ornaments quickly and easily.)

Our little angels keep Cape Cod with us during the off-season. The medieval pilgrimage connotations of the scallop shell give the angels a certain dignity and make them all the more evocative. One of the world’s first souvenirs, the scallop shell became the emblem of the pilgrimage to St. James of Compostela, the several routes of which stretch through the mountains of France to northern Spain. Tourism on a grand scale was born in these pilgrimage routes, and the Way of St. James continues to attract pilgrims, many still on foot. Medieval pilgrims were, to some degree, tourists, just as many of today’s tourists are, in a sense, pilgrims. For travelers of the eleventh or the twenty-first century, whether navigating the perils of wilderness paths or the trials of Interstate 95, the goals of the journey are similar and elemental: an escape from the daily routine, the promise of adventure, a firmer grasp of life’s real meaning, and the opportunity for spiritual renewal. I love it that such richness of meaning is tied up neatly in the humble shell angels on our Christmas tree. *

*One final, fitting point of interest: our scallop shells wash ashore near the place where our country’s first pilgrims landed. As most of us learned and later forgot, the Mayflower’s initial stop in the new world was in what is now Provincetown Harbour.

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Next-Generation Elves

 

 

 

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My daughter was born on New Year’s Eve.  We attribute her outsized love of Christmas to her so narrowly missing it that first year.  She is definitely her grandmother’s girl—she inherited her talent for and love of Christmas crafts. She and I continue the tradition of holiday ornament-making that Mama started with me. Like her grandmother, D prefers to use found objects whenever possible. (Our family is historically green in the sense that we’d rather use what’s on hand, even if it means turning the house upside-down, instead of going to the store to get the exact right thing.  We like the challenge of improvisation.)  My daughter has always been a scavenger, a picker-upper of little things and bits of things that she sets aside for an unknown future use. She returned each day from Kindergarten with a different unidentifiable something she had found in the hallway or under a desk. Until recently she collected broken pencil tips. I give thanks everyday that she has outgrown the phase in which she pronounced every gray, forgettable rock along the road a priceless treasure: This is pretty! And so is this! And this tiny one is very beautiful! After even a short walk, our pockets were weighed down with gravel. I quietly returned them to the road later.

A more serendipitous find occurred one day after a pine tree in the neighborhood fell victim to a summer storm. We brought back many branches bearing perfect little pinecones. Even in the July heat, their need to be recycled into some kind of fat-bodied holiday creature called out urgently to both of us. Once home, we went to the craft closet to see what other materials were available. (It’s telling that in our old house, where closets are few, we have one devoted almost entirely to crafts.) We gathered popsicle sticks, toothpicks, large wooden beads, pipe cleaners (chenille stems in crafters’ lingo), plenty of small colored beads, and bags full of acorn caps (of course we collect these—I’m a real sucker for a cute acorn cap!)

D was still in preschool when we made our pinecone people, but she already had a good sense of design. She quickly pushed for toothpick arms and legs. I couldn’t see it—the contrast between the rotund pinecone body and the skinny toothpick seemed too great. But she persisted (she’s stubborn, as well as crafty), and so I agreed to give it a try. Thanks to the magic of the hot glue gun, it was possible to affix the toothpicks down in the depths of each pinecone. And D’s idea was a good one. The resulting figures are particularly active and expressive.  They sit, stand, or jump to attention. Wooden bead heads, jaunty acorn caps, and smaller colored beads for hands and feet completed our woodland people. We drew facial features with a Sharpie.  Some of these piney creatures come out in early fall to mix it up with pumpkins, gourds and leaves. Others, outfitted in red felt capes and scarves, don’t appear until December.

I love the charming simplicity of our pinecone folk.  They remind me that a little magic may be born of the most ordinary circumstances and materials, if we pause and open our hearts to the possibility.  Such opportunities between parent and child become increasingly rare as our children mature.  My advice as the mother of an almost-teen:  recognize and treasure those moments!

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Working like Elves

When I was growing up, every year beginning in early November, my mother and I went to work on hand-crafted Christmas ornaments. Mama is an expert in the D.I.Y. department. She can sew anything, upholster, refinish furniture and floors, paint, wallpaper, set tile, gold-leaf frames, create really lovely silk flowers, and man, is she a whizz at Christmas ornaments. As the first cool breeze of fall could be felt  in Atlanta, she was bursting with ideas she had picked up from magazines, craft programs on TV, and her own lively imagination.

So, like Santa’s elves, we worked.  Mama and I hand-stitched many ornaments from brightly colored felt: candy cane stick horses, stuffed angels, Rudolfs, and tiny Raggedy Ann & Andy dolls.  There were mice peeking out of stockings, as well as free-standing mice dressed as Santa, Mrs. Claus and elves. One year we produced a huge outpouring of painted bread dough ornaments. These didn’t last for more than a few seasons due to insect invasions. When I was about twelve Mama ordered a big set of pre-cut wooden ornaments for me to paint. Then there were the clothespin toy soldiers and the drums made from spools. I returned from college one December to find that my father had gotten into holiday crafting spirit. His specialty was the adorable pasta angel (rigatoni body, bowtie wings, anellini or stellini hair), and he turned out quite a crowd. We shared our ornaments with friends and relatives, often tying them onto gifts, and there were always many left over for us.

One year when Daddy took a rare out-of-state business trip (he went to Reno, and I still have the postcard he sent me), Mama decided we should undertake an especially ambitious project:  ornaments resembling stained glass. The “lead” framing was a stiff bread dough that we attempted, with much difficulty, to force out of a pastry gun. The “glass” was formed from melted, cracked hard candy (we used a mallet to beat the candy, wrapped in a tea towel, on the kitchen counter). This was a project that required the unlikely combination of brute strength and extreme patience.  I’m not saying we weren’t up to the job. We got it done, but it took its toll. Mama remembers that I stormed out of the kitchen at one point, around 2AM, yelling about the violation of child labor laws. But I came back in, and sometime before dawn, we finished the last ornament. They really did look like stained glass, and they were beautiful. But I’m not sure if they were worth it.

Due to the flurry of holiday preparations, as well as our family tendency toward holiday illness, I know I won’t be writing much, so I’ll devote the next few posts to photos of some of our favorite homemade Christmas ornaments.

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The felt and candy-cane stick horse. 

Thanks to Mama, these began to roam freely
throughout our Atlanta neighborhood during the 70s.

Does your family have a tradition of home-made ornaments?
Childhood memories of making ornaments under duress?  Let me know! 

At Long Last, Our Puppy

It took a while, but I found an experienced breeder of Shiba Inus in our area. Debbie has been in the Shiba-breeding business for nearly twenty years, and her integrity and knowledge are evident. We made a couple of preliminary trips to her kennel to see the dogs and, I hoped, to persuade her that we were a Shiba-worthy family. Debbie values quality over quantity; her puppies are precious and few. There had been none for a while, but in mid-August, a litter of five was born, and we were on track for a male. We had been approved!

 

We first saw the puppies when they were just over a month old and past the point at which they are susceptible to human germs. A tiny Shiba pup can hardly be surpassed for cuteness: a roly-poly bundle of red fur, soft as mink, with a face resembling that of the ideal Teddy Bear. The short muzzle is dramatically dark, and the ears, which will point straight up in a few weeks, still flop over at the tips. The tail is a little thing that could fit on a chipmunk, a far cry from the bushy doughnut-like shape it will take on. So new to the world, the puppies appeared meek and uncertain when we arrived. Four became increasingly active during our visit. They explored the limits of their small home with growing boldness and persistence, while the fifth snoozed soundly. Cuddling a furry bunch of pure sweetness the color of brown sugar, I didn’t mind (too much) when I realized it had peed on my shirt. (We’re pretty sure this was our boy-to-be).

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Kiko (in center) and his two brothers, at four weeks.

Because the “pick of the litter” male and female had been reserved for buyers in the dog-show world, we couldn’t simply choose a puppy. Debbie was evaluating the pups during their first two months, to determine which would make the best show dogs. In our eyes, only very subtle markings set the five apart, and they all looked perfect. The dog show circuit was not for us. One of the males was somewhat darker that the others. He had inherited his father’s rich red coloring. This would turn out to be our Kiko.

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Our daughter in the puppy pen with the litter at four weeks.

When we visited again in two weeks, the puppies had grown considerably and blossomed in personality. Their bodies were sturdier, their ears stood up, their tails were furrier. This time we went out with them into the enclosed yard, where they exhibited a wildly exuberant fierceness. They ran, they tumbled, they attacked a big stuffed bear. And they assaulted one another (and us) repeatedly with their teeny sharp puppy teeth and toenails. The two females were especially aggressive, often leaving their brothers reeling with bewilderment. Not without good reason are female dogs called bitches. One of the males latched onto our daughter’s hair and clung on tenaciously. Again, this would be our Kiko. During his first weeks at home he periodically treated human hair as his own special toy.

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One of the pups, at six weeks, attacks the bear.
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Another pup at six weeks.

At eight weeks we could bring our puppy home. We had brought the travel crate, but we couldn’t bear to put Kiko in it. D was eight and still in her booster seat, so she got settled and took the puppy in her lap. He was understandably anxious, having just been wrenched from Mama and his pack. Clearly he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else, and D couldn’t hold the slippery, wriggly, strong-willed little guy. When I leaned back to get him, he looked up at me with such sorrow and confusion I almost cried. Debbie had given us a stuffed fox that had been in the kennel with the pups and had the smell of home. (Foxy is still Kiko’s favorite toy. I have re-stitched her seams several times.) I tried to cuddle Kiko and Foxy together, but the puppy was inconsolable. His instinct was to escape. He was determined to climb up the sides of the car, onto the dash, even onto H’s lap as he drove.

Once home and out on the porch in the sunshine, exhausted from the anxiety of the ride, Kiko promptly fell into a deep sleep in D’s lap. That night, Kiko endeared himself to H by sleeping on his foot as we sat on the sofa. All was peaceful. I marveled that this small fuzzy four-legged creature was with us in our home. I noticed that his little tummy was freckled and nearly hairless.  He looked vulnerable and defenseless.  Already I loved him so much. But some tough days of puppyhood lay ahead, for all of us.

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Kiko getting used to his new home, a few days later.

Prelude to a Puppy (Part II)

Now that the question of dog or no dog had been settled in the affirmative, my husband asked for only one consideration: a dog without excessive fluff.

At first this saddened and irritated me, because I love the fluff. While there are many short-haired, sleekly handsome dogs, my personal tactile preference is for thick, luxurious fur into which I can sink my face and fingers. I had envisioned a cuddly mixed breed puppy, perhaps with Chow Chow, American Eskimo Dog or Keeshond parentage. Or maybe we could find a black and white Popi look-a-like. (His full name had been Potpourri, to reflect his mixed heritage of Chow and Cocker Spaniel.) But when it hit me that I would be an adult instead of the child in this dog-human relationship, I began to see the housekeeping advantage of less fluff.  I would be the primary wielder of vacuum, Swiffer and dust-cloth. Still, I needed a dog with substantial fur.

Early on in our dog-decision process, I assumed we’d simply look for an appealing mutt at the Humane Society, likely the best place to discover a potential Popi II.  But as I considered my childhood dog’s personality in a less nostalgia-tinged light, I began to second guess both the shelter and the Popi aspects of the plan.  My beloved dog’s loyal devotion to my parents and me was a big plus. We were all the pack he needed. He had little interest in other humans or in his fellow dogs. He didn’t require doggie play-dates (an unheard-of concept then). We saw him as highly intelligent, discerning, unwilling to waste affection on strangers. These positive points had their corresponding negatives. Popi didn’t suffer fools; he didn’t take crap from anyone. On a number of occasions, when provoked, he bit people, usually children. He wasn’t vicious; he never bit without due cause, and he rarely broke the skin.  During those less litigious times, such behavior was more frequently seen as justified. Parents now tend to think a dog has no business biting their child, even if the kid does sneak up and roughly wrap a belt around the dog’s neck or try to stuff the dog into a box. I realized that while I still appreciated Popi’s aloofness, I didn’t want to deal with a biting dog, no matter how justified.

Another problem with choosing a shelter dog is our family’s soft-heartedness for animals. What if we saw a dog that tugged at our heart strings but somehow wasn’t suitable? I was afraid we’d be haunted by the memory. I still remember a dog that looked plaintively at me twenty years ago when I happened to walk past it at an adoption event at a shopping center. I was a student; I had no permanent address; I couldn’t get a dog. But I can’t forget that face begging for love. D and H are similarly inclined.

Gradually, I realized we should consider a purebred dog. I had been a lifelong champion of mutts, so this took some getting used to. With a purebred we could avoid the problems of uncertain temperament that can result from a mixed breed’s unknown parentage. The best path, we concluded, was to decide on a breed that fit our needs, then locate a reputable breeder. We would be more likely to get a non-aggressive dog. We would have a higher chance of getting a puppy. And we could better avoid the heartache of having to refuse a dog that wasn’t a good fit.

It took us a while to settle on a breed. Most were too large or too small, too clumsy or too yippy, too shaggy or too sleek, too friendly or not friendly enough. My daughter and I were watching the Westminster Dog Show when we spotted an unfamiliar breed, the Shiba Inu, of Japanese origin, a smaller relative of the Akita. This fox-like dog has a jaunty walk, proud bearing, pointed ears, bright slanting eyes, a tail curled to resemble a bagel, and red velvety fur that is thick but decidedly not fluffy. D and I were entranced. We felt sure we’d hit upon a dog that even H could love, or at least abide, especially when the announcer referred to the Shiba as very neat, clean and intelligent, “a big dog in a small dog’s body.”

The more I learned about the breed, the better it sounded. The Shiba tends to be reserved around other dogs, but not aggressive toward people. Maybe we could get a touch of Popi’s aloofness but none of his bitey-ness. D and I were excited; we could sense our dog dream becoming a reality.

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Me with my little puppy Popi, around 8 weeks old. It was time to see my daughter with her own puppy!

Prelude to a Puppy (Part I)

After seeing Kiko again with Beau, his playmate from puppy days, I’ve been thinking about the protracted process through which we became a family with a dog. Popi, my childhood dog, was with me from second grade until after I finished college. I have felt his absence ever since. But our family doesn’t acquire dogs lightly. The time was not right, and so the years passed by, dogless.

My daughter began campaigning for a dog nearly as soon as she could talk. She was, no doubt, at least partially motivated by the Popi stories I had been telling her since she was born: how he once boarded the bus to Grant Park, as though seeking out his roots, his utter lack of fear, his unshakable self-confidence, his delight in the little stocking Santa filled for him each Christmas, his talents for hide-and-seek and squirrel scattering, his noble loyalty to family. Popi had become a legend, for me and my daughter. But the time still wasn’t right. My husband was traveling four days a week, and I could all too easily envision the complications of being an often-single parent raising a young child and a puppy. (I know my limits, and they are low.) Thinking back on my experience, I told D that I would be ready for a dog when she reached second grade.

H, however, was very firmly not in favor of a dog. He had grown up with a menagerie of pets: rabbits, birds, guinea pigs and a box turtle that lives with us still.  But no dog.  D and I set forth every possible justification: a dog is a surrogate sibling for an only child, a dog is an effective security system, a dog offers a unique, transforming love, difficult to comprehend until you’ve experienced it. By this point, my wish for a dog had morphed into a full-blown ache, and it wasn’t going away. I had now loved the dead Popi far longer than the living Popi. For me, the time was right, and getting more urgently right with every passing day. H worked longer hours and tried not to hear. (He would probably say this is an unfair assessment). Second grade came and went, and there was no dog for us. D continued to end her nightly prayers unfailingly with the words, “and dear God, please let us get a dog.”

H had one final defense to which he clung fixedly: he was convinced that his allergy to cats extended to dogs. And he was pretty sure that his daughter, so like him in many ways, would prove to be allergic, also. I had D allergy-tested. She had no animal allergies (not even to cats). At long last, H reluctantly agreed to testing. Unfortunately for him, he showed no allergy to dogs. Had he been a less honorable man, he would have tried to rig the test. He was out of ammunition, he had lost the battle. D and I were jubilant: we would be getting a dog.

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Popi on Christmas morning in 1970, with his stocking. My gifts in the background include the Game of Life, Mystery Date, and a Madame Alexander Alice-in-Wonderland doll.