Categories
Loading
Welcome to Babble,
Settings
Sign Out

Get the Babble Newsletter!

Already have an account? .

My dog is my starter baby. By Jessica Valenti for Babble.com.

Monty cried the first few nights he was home. It was annoying, and I didn’t get much sleep. I am also not a fan of the peeing. I mean, it gets everywhere. The morning feeding and walking also took place about two hours earlier than I would have liked. I work from home, so I’m accustomed to waking up whenever I want, not being forced awake by crying. Between you and me, sometimes I just let him whine and sleep the extra hour.

Luckily, Monty is a miniature Australian Shepherd, so he doesn’t take much offense.

I never thought of myself as the kind of gal who would baby her dog. I bristle when I see women with their little yappy dogs in designer gear that I couldn’t afford for myself, cooing at them to “give Mommy kisses.” I’m not a vegetarian, I don’t think animals are like people, and I don’t think you should tote dogs around in weird pet strollers or papooses. And I’m feminist, goddamn it – we only like cats! Right?

But like it or not, Monty is my baby. My starter baby.

I never really believed in the whole “biological clock” thing. It was a patriarchal construction devised to control women, a bullshit standard made to shame those of us who had the audacity not to want to breed as soon as humanly possible. Then I turned twenty-seven – and all of a sudden, frigging babies were everywhere. I could have sworn that women were reproducing at twice the normal rate. I never remembered seeing so many babies on the street and in coffee shops; strollers and Baby Bjorns always seemed to be in my eye line. And, much to my horror, I wanted one.

I started to think about the relationship I was in and how it wasn’t necessarily conducive to child-rearing. After all, Brooklyn hipsters with coke problems don’t exactly scream “daddy material.” It wasn’t long before I ditched the boy and left my Williamsburg loft, which was locally famous for impromptu, late-night parties. But looking back, I know I didn’t want a baby in any real sort of way – I wasn’t about to go get knocked up or start hopefully asking guys on our first date what they thought about children. I realized that I didn’t want a baby, I wanted to baby.

FacebookTwitterGoogle+TumblrPinterest
Tagged as:

Use a Facebook account to add a comment, subject to Facebook's Terms of Service and Privacy Policy. Your Facebook name, profile photo and other personal information you make public on Facebook (e.g., school, work, current city, age) will appear with your comment. Learn More.

FacebookTwitterGoogle+TumblrPinterest