Gatsby Part 2
How do you apologize to a dog for the rough years? The years when you’ve started a family, you’re working full time, you’re exhausted, you’re barely holding everything together, and the dog that was once the center of your life has become one more thing that needs something from you. There are moments I’m not proud of, moments when I yelled when I could have spoken softly, moments when I let frustration get the better of me, when I should have taken a deep breath and tried to find the humor in the situation. Sometimes, I did do those things, but many times, I failed; like the times when I had finally gotten a child to sleep and he barked; the times when he wanted to play but I had my hands full; when he started begging for food because now the children dropped everything on the floor and he knew what people food tasted like; when his wagging tail whipped my toddler’s face, causing tears.
I’d had bouts of anxiety before, but nothing compared to when I had children. My fear of failure, combined with my fear of something awful happening to them created a monstrous ball of angst that I constantly carried with me, making me tense and curt and impatient; and then there were just so many demands: packing diaper bags, snacks, lunch, and breast milk, cleaning the breast pump and its four thousand parts, leaving the house at 7:30, returning at 5:30 after driving around one of the three states that comprised my work territory, often logging more than 300 miles in a day. I rushed to drop off the kids. I rushed to pick up the kids. I rushed to make dinner, give baths, read books, clean the house, fold laundry, and get the kids to bed. I rushed to cram it all in, and I did not enjoy it, because I wasn’t doing any of it well. On good days, I’d only have an hour or so of work to do after the children went to bed, then I’d stare blankly at the TV, wanting to escape, even if only for a few minutes, before dropping into a fitful sleep, knowing that the first of many nighttime awakenings was moments away.
One morning, as I rushed to get out the door, my daughter had a massive diaper blowout that required a bath. I got her cleaned up and ready to go again, let Gatsby in from outside and discovered he had rolled in turkey poop. I put him in the bath, swearing the whole time, scolding him, knowing the clock was ticking, pushing the limits for me to be able to make it to my first meeting, which was more than an hour’s drive away. Gatsby could never resist a good roll in turkey poop. It was his favorite, and he was quite disappointed that I was removing his perfume of choice. He stepped out of the shower and shook the water off, coating the walls and worse, my suit. More swearing, more checking my watch, I change into fresh clothes. I retrieve my daughter from the pack and play and set her on my hip, picking up my briefcase as I head toward the door. I feel warmth on my hand and a smell creeps up my nose. She’s done it again, and she needs another bath, and I need another change of clothes. Damn those prunes! I feel my anxiety skyrocket. I am going to be late. I am going to be beyond late. I am going to have to cancel my meeting. I swear again. I feel as though I am failing at everything.
Gatsby looks at me with confusion as I put my bag down and stomp back upstairs to the bathroom. Moments later, he appears seated by my side as I am lowering my baby into the water while simultaneously stepping out of my stained clothes. Tension radiates off of my body. As my daughter splashes and smiles, Gatsby nudges me, and I set my hand on his head. He is there to comfort me. I kneel and lean into him, resting my head on his, and I breathe deeply, willing my body to calm, willing myself to let go of my expectations for what I will accomplish that day. I lean into him further, wrapping my arms around him in a hug. He laps my cheek. The stress lessens as he absorbs it. He smells like wet dog. He laps my neck. I laugh, and once I start, I can’t stop. The absurdity of what has just happened sinks in. My daughter smiles and coos in the tub. Gatsby senses the change in my mood and runs to get a toy. I cancel my meeting and give up on working that day, and I am all the better for it.
As he did on this occasion, Gatsby always tried his hardest to alleviate my burdens. When we had visitors to our house, he kindly but firmly stood between them and “his” children. His patience as the children’s playmate was endless despite being dressed as a princess, a lifesaver, and any number of other things. He sat patiently as my daughter read to him. He kept watch if the children went outside. When they grew, he walked them to the school bus every morning and waited for them every afternoon. He adapted to his new life as we moved from our first house, to our second and then our third and fourth. He listened when the children spoke. He soothed when they cried. He alerted me if they needed help. After the initial period of feeling as though he was one more thing to take care of, he again became my greatest comfort, my consoler, my constant. He helped get me through dark days when I wasn’t sure if I could take another step, when I questioned my identity as a mother, an employee, and a human being. He didn’t care what I was or whether I was good at it, as long as I was with him and our little ones. As it turned out, that was all I truly needed. I never figured out how to apologize to him for those years when I wasn’t my best, but he forgave me anyway. He was a far superior being, and I am grateful for that.
