Molly and I have already established a firm Saturday-morning routine. First, we stop by Starbucks for some hot liquid breakfast. Then we drive to our local off-leash wonderland and spend the morning running free with dozens of very happy dogs. After that we come home and we both get a scrub down to wash off all that mud/poo/slobber that comes home with you after a trip to the dog park. Molly and I both love this routine, as it gives us a chance to unwind after a stressful week and start the weekend off with some great exercise. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to keep it up though. I don’t know if we’ll get to keep Miss Molly.

This darling pup, who is so sweet and gentle with me, strongly believes that she is more bad-ass than pretty much every other living creature. Including my children. And she believes that it is her job to let everyone know what a stud she is by growling her little face off. Cat walks by? Grrrrrrrr. Visitor stops over for an afternoon? Grrr-snarl-grrrrwl. Child climbs up in my lap? Jump-push-grrr-snap. This is very typical dominance-aggression, but when you have small kids it needs to be taken extremely seriously. Even one tiny warning nip could rip a toddler’s cheek off. As you can see, here she is scaring the crap out of a poor Great Dane puppy this morning. This lumbering giant was terrified of my squat little fireball:

On the positive side, Molly is highly tuned in to me and seeks my approval, so any discipline from me is met with immediate obedience. On the negative side, she’s a terrier mix. Which makes her stubborn, smart, and stealthy. This dog knows how to sneak behind my back to carry out forbidden missions (such as silently climbing up on top of the table to steal food when my back is turned). Although I try to keep an eye on her as much as possible to correct unwanted behaviors quickly, I can’t be everywhere all the time. I just don’t know what to do. She’s an amazing dog, and I already love her with a big smooshy gooshy love. I can’t send her back to the shelter- she was so sick when we brought her home that she had to be hospitalized for 48 hours. She needed IV fluids and antibiotics to ward off a nasty bout of doggy pneumonia. We had to give her three pills a day to keep the infection under control, and after all that she still sneezes and coughs every day. She needs to be bathed with a special skin-soothing shampoo in order to clear up the dry, flaky skin that stress and a bad shelter diet caused. Putting her back in that environment, to endure all that scary isolation and be exposed to all those germs again, is not an option. But I don’t think keeping her is either. As our vet so wisely says, “You can always get a new dog, but your kid can’t ever get a new face.”

In my heart, I don’t think she would actually bite on purpose, but my children’s safety has to come first. Ugh. This is a sad and lame and very sucky situation. Any and all advice freely welcomed. Unless you’re going to be mean to me. Then I shall delete you.

This is Molly.

This weekend. It was hard. And last week. That was hard too. I’ve been dealing with a lot of no-fun emotional yuck, and on top of all that, Zibbit is 2 1/2. I shouldn’t have to say anything else. All I have to say is that she’s 2 1/2 and that should be enough to make you all say, “Oh, dude, we didn’t realize. I’m so sorry. How’re you holding up?”

When you have a newborn, everyone’s always asking you how things are going. Are you getting any sleep? How is the breastfeeding going? Are your stitches healing ok? Everyone is so concerned and willing to listen to your gripes about blocked ducts and colic. It’s such a shock, to your body and your way of life, to give birth. That tiny little person creates a massive upheaval in your schedule and priorities. It’s hard. And exhausting. Everyone tells you things will get easier as your baby gets older. And that is the meanest, most horribly malicious lie you will ever hear in your entire life.

I would like to find each and every one of those people who told me things would get easier, that we would adjust, and stick them in a room with this demon who used to be my child for an hour. Just one hour and they will be begging me for mercy, offering me money and diamonds and yachts, anything I want if I would please for the love of all that is good and holy just let them leave.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my daughter very much. And I haven’t called for an exorcism yet. Although I’ve come close. The kid will not wear clothes anymore. She will not eat. She will scream bloody murder for chocolate every day at six am, and shoot death daggers from her eyes if you even so much as suggest a diaper change. She will also whack you in the eye with her binky if you ask her nicely to please stop licking your face and tell you to “leave me ‘lone” when you try to kiss her goodnight. She will demand that you read her a book while at the same time refusing to let you look at the page to see the frickin words. She will shriek like a dying raccoon when you put her into the bathtub and then double the volume when you try to get her out. And then, when you’re just about to throw yourself from the roof to make it all end, she’ll come to you out of the blue and give you giant sloppy kisses while telling you how much she loves you. I feel like I’m living with an alcoholic. The inconsistency is making me crazy. I never know what’s going to set her off. Am I enabling her when I let her wear nothing but shoes to bed? Is there an Al-Anon for parents of 2 1/2 year olds?

And don’t you dare tell me that things will get easier. I just might have to hurt you.

This is one of my best friends in the whole world. We were pregnant together; we even had our babies on the same day. Her love for me is so calm and uncomplicated. Unwavering. She says hello by touching the tip of her cold wet nose to mine. I need her neurotic obsession with chasing shadows to cheer me up on sad days, and the warmth of her body across my lap on days when I’m feeling lonely. She’s my sidekick, the Robin to my Batman. I love this furball.