Your Dog is a Dog

I want to start this with honesty. I do not have children. I am not sitting in the smug place of parenthood, knowing that I know things people who don't have children can never know. I do not know those things. I also want to be clear that I'm not here to sell anyone on how great kids are, or how they will magically make your life better. If you know you want a child-free life, more power to you. My younger self didn't understand that, but, more than a decade later, I understand both the gravity of raising and teaching children, and the reality that not everyone is cut out for it. I'm now old enough to have seen some friends who, though they love their children, do not love being parents.

While I may not have my own children, I am well acquainted with them. I'm going into my twenty-second year of working with, teaching, or caring for children in some capacity. I've worn a lot of different hats over the course of that time. For a decade, I was in the autism world. Currently, I'm a nanny; it's a reprisal of a role I last held while I was in college. Both then and now, I have enjoyed it immensely. I love being part of the village that is raising these children. This time around it is three little girls: Big Sis, Little Bear, and Love Bug. Sis is seven, Bear is nearly six, Love Bug almost two.

But for all of us who are child-free or childless, whether by choice or circumstance, for the love, let's stop pretending that raising a dog or a cat or a ferret is akin to parenting a child. It is not. I say this as a pet lover and a proud cat “mom.” I could easily write pages and pages about my cats, who are glorious. I'll try to keep it brief.

I am a “failed foster” which means I wound up keeping the two sickly, five week old kittens I fostered for the animal shelter nearly twelve years ago. One of the cats in particular has never lost her kitten qualities. She communicates with big eyes and tiny kitten mews, plaintive and inquisitive in varying degrees. Both cats are wool suckers, which is common with cats who were weaned too early. Hannah, the babiest baby of the pair, comes bounding into my bed as soon as she hears me settle down for the night. She crawls under the covers for “blankie time,” and most nights I fall asleep with her pressed hard into my side, purring to beat the band, “nursing” on her special blanket.

I've had some beloved dogs in my life, too. Most notable was Bonnie, the magical dog who saw me through the end of childhood and into young adulthood. December 2, 2021 will be the twentieth anniversary of her death. I still dream about her sometimes, and about Cassie, the dog that came next, who we lost almost seven years ago. Believe me, I know what it is to fall hard for a dog.

I say all this to make it clear: I get it. We pet people love our pets. We make lifetime commitments to them, take thousands of pictures of them, and throw them birthday parties. They keep us company, we take pleasure in caring for them, and the bond of affection we feel for them is unquestionably mutual. For those of us who don't have children, pets bring a certain tenderness into our lives. They trust us and they are dependent on us. We in turn delight in nurturing them, and spoiling them, and burying our faces into their fur and calling them “baby.” Not so very different from having a kid, right? I've seen that argument made in all seriousness. But, no, I'm sorry. Wax poetic about how much you love your dog (or cat) all you want; having a pet will never be the same thing as parenting a child. Dogs are not children. Dogs are dogs. I'll go a step further, since, in our increasingly anti-child culture, it needs to be said: Animal life is not as valuable or as precious as the life of an actual human child.

It's become increasingly popular to bitch about children. In a culture of complainers, which, speaking as an American, I can say by and large we are, grievance comedy is king and children give us material for that in spades. After this many years with kids, I can do that routine with ease. Eye rolling. Sarcasm. Irritation, both feigned and real. Taking care of children in any capacity- whether it be teaching, parenting, or caretaking- is hard work, and we have to find the humor in our days. Children are unintentionally hilarious and absurdly dramatic all the time. Like I said, they give us material in spades. Plus, we all want to be cool, right? What are adults, after all, but grown-up children?

It is so much more acceptable to riff about what a pain kids are. Loud, sticky, selfish, petty, confusing, little chaos-makers, the whole rotten lot of them. I find the space to talk about their beauty, their humanity, and the wonder and the joy that they add to our lives grows increasingly smaller. I find it generally goes unacknowledged that children give us profound glimpses into truths about ourselves and our kind. I find that while it is, and should be, unacceptable to speak about how much we hate, or hold in contempt, or can't stand, other vulnerable groups in our society, it is perfectly OK to use these terms when talking about children. If wealthy Western culture ever needed Mr. Rogers to appear on a white steed at dawn and turn the tide of battle, that hour is now.

When I’m with my pets, I never cast my mind too far into the future. I know the time I have with them is limited, and if I let myself go too far down that road, I can see my life without them. The inevitability of it is as hard and as clear as crystal. I make no dreams, and have no hopes, except for the bittersweet wish that they will beat the odds, and stay much longer than they should. I know that they will not go out into the world someday and change it for better or for worse. I do not worry about whether or not they will love well and be loved in return. I do not wonder if the things I teach them will someday impact others. But the children that have been in my life? For them, I dream and I hope. For them, I wonder and I pray.

Unlike pets, with children you can see the flame of their future, burning bright within them. It is ever present. You hope, each day, that you have done enough to allow them to let their light shine. You hope that you have fanned those flames, and not extinguished them, hope that you have guided that fire, as they grow in independence and in power. You hope you are giving them the tools they need to one day fully steward themselves. And you hope, above all, that they will burn for good and for justice and for truth.

Your eyes scan the horizon of your days, always on the lookout for teachable moments, hoping you have the time and the energy to recognize them, to seize them, to use them when they come. You hold your seeds of knowledge tight in your fist as you do dishes, and fold laundry, and make afternoon snacks. You keep them at the ready in the pocket of your jeans, or on the tip of your tongue, waiting for the moment to present itself and then you plant, plant, plant. Or water, or weed, or shine on, those tender shoots of knowing that have sprung up in the hearts and minds of your little charges.

They take up so much breathing space, these children. They will not flop contentedly on the floor while you watch TV, or sit quietly in your lap while you write. No. They fill the air with sound and movement, their bodies still a ceaseless source of exuberant wonder. They simply must twirl and spin, flop and jump, shape their mouths into perfect “Os” and “ooohhhhhh” in an eerily high register, all for the sheer pleasure of it. So might we, were we so unburdened by the worries of adult life that hamstring us in a thousand, tiny different ways. So might we, if our inner critics were put on permanent mute. Ignorance, they say, is bliss, and if children are any indication, I would have to agree.

I sometimes think about the story of the Garden of Eden, with humanity starting off in a literal kindergarten, and the picture of unburdened freedom that story paints. I think of the metaphor of that tree, the knowledge of good and evil, and of all the ugly things I wish I could unlearn. Working with babies and very young children gives me the rarest of gifts- a glimpse into Eden, where humanity basks in the immeasurable grace of simply being. Comfortable in their own skin, blissfully unaware of the judgments of others, ready for, open to, and completely dependent on that one thing we humans need most to thrive: Love.

Two months into the pandemic, Love Bug turned a year old. But for most of her infancy, we were still living our best, pre-pandemic life. Back then, our days were packed, and we juggled part-time preschool, music class, dance class, swimming lessons, and afternoon kindergarten pick up. Fitting in naps, bottle feedings, and the needs of a baby could be tough. While rushing through dressing her one day, I chatted at her, but I wasn't really with her. For her part, she kept up a steady stream of mildly unhappy sounds. Not crying, exactly, and too young for true whining, she settled on a series of staccato “uh, uh, uhs” accompanied by restless movements. Once she was dressed, I stopped and looked at her. I leaned down close, and really looked at her. As we locked eyes, her body relaxed and stilled, the unhappy sounds stopped, and slowly, a smile spread across her face. Children often speak without any words, so I'll translate for us here. “This is what I need,” she told me, “to be seen, to be known, to feel loved.” Don't we all, Love Bug, don't we all.

We walk around in our adult armor, pretending we have somehow changed from our earliest days, but the human heart is immutable in its needs. We blame children for being loud in demanding satisfaction for the yearning we all carry deep within us: To be seen, to be known, and to be loved once we are. One glance at the popularity of horoscopes, personality tests, and the booming self-help industry will tell you just how deep and universal that longing is. “Look at me! I want to know me! I am special! I am unique!” We communicate it all the time, in a thousand different ways. Can we blame children then, if they hang upside down off the couch, or yell “poopy” at the top of their lungs, hoping for a moment of connection? When we steadfastly check our social media feeds for the reactions of our peers, aren't we doing the same thing? We just aren't as honest about it as the kids are.

My pets, although I love them, have never taught me these things. They've taught me other things, but not these things. They have never peeled back the layers and let me peek at the machinery of the human heart the way children have, when they put their tiny hands in mine. They have never made me consider myself and my place in the wild and beautiful web of the world, how we are intertwined, in front and behind, with the generations that came before and those that are yet to be. My fur babies, though precious, can never give to me, or to the world, what children do with all their noise, their mess, and their heartbreaking vulnerability. Our pets cannot, for all their loveliness, hold a mirror up before us, or promise a future that burns bright.