I have three children, two who are growing rapidly and becoming more independent every day, and one that cries if you leave the room without her and licks the carpet when she’s bored. The carpet licker has four legs and a tail and is obviously a dog, not an actual child. But here’s the thing: she’s more work than the two kids have ever been combined. Allow me to illustrate my point.

This morning started out as a nice little Saturday. I was enjoying a double espresso and revising an essay I’d written a few years ago. There was soft music playing in the background, the cat was sitting next to me, purring sweetly, and my husband was lying on the couch on the other side of the room reading a book and petting the dog who was next to him. I had just reached a profound moment in my writing process where I was trying to decide if a joke I’d added took away from the emotional arc of the essay, when Phoebe, my dog-child, saw something out the window. She jumped up to begin her usual bark-jump-bark sequence that occurs whenever a cat or a squirrel wanders by or a neighbor has the nerve to be in their own driveway. This particular jump-bark sequence quickly got out of control when she hit the lamp with her tail and smacked the exposed light bulb against the window, spraying shards of glass all over the room and my husband. This bulb was larger than most and I’m not exaggerating when I say pieces of glass were scattered twenty feet in every direction. No one was wearing shoes, including the dog, and the living room went from a place of peaceful creativity to a glittering danger zone very quickly. 

I had no idea how to begin cleaning up the glass given that the bulk of it was on my husband’s person. Wiping it off would result in cutting him and picking each tiny piece off would take hours. So, naturally, I got the vacuum and proceeded to suck it off of him. That sounds way kinkier than it was, I assure you. Once he was clear of shards, I sent him to the shower and then went about vacuuming every surface in the living room until it was safe to walk and sit again. 

That clean-up process complete, I let the dog outside to go potty. After about six minutes, I let her back in, only to discover that she was covered in what smelled like raccoon scat or maybe just stagnant creek water and mud. Whatever it was, it required an immediate bath which was an all-hands-on-deck job that no one enjoyed, especially Phoebe, who has no idea her actions have consequences. 

My kids are growing up and that’s okay because we’re still caring for someone who needs constant supervision, protection from herself, and frequent reminders to not eat weird things.

Several hours after our quiet little Saturday began, the dog is clean, back to licking the carpet. My husband and the living room are mostly glass free, and good news! The joke didn’t hurt the essay one bit.