May 12, 2023 4 min read

There’s a sad truism that will appear in media now and again, the one that reminds us that for all mothers, there was (or will come) a moment we would pick up, change, or feed our child for the last time. The melancholy of it lies in our not knowing it would be the last time – that the child would have grown out of that need without our recognizing and savoring it as it happened. Afterward it would become a memory, like a little pair of toddler shoes put away in a box.

I’ve been thinking about the reverse of that. What things are happening with our children that are the beginning of something, moments that we may not recognize now but are the seeds of their growing up?

Last week my daughter texted me a photo of a puppy. She followed up with a phone call to tell me that she and her new husband had adopted the dog. They’d given the decision a great deal of thought, had done research about the breed, and had prepared their apartment for the new arrival.

“We’re obsessed with her,” my daughter said.

That word, obsessed, brought a swarm of memories from 30 years ago, when my then-husband and I adopted our first dog – a ruddy, shy, dachshund-mix abandoned along a road and taken in by a minister. From the first night when she cried until she slept, we were smitten – calling our parents to tell them about her, taking her with us almost everywhere. We featured her on our Christmas cards.

She was the center of our little family for the three years before our infant son came along. Of course, a puppy is inconvenient and aggravating; a human baby is needy and dependent. But maybe my daughter’s caring for their new puppy is the beginning I’ll one day remember.

“You’re learning to take care of something other than yourself,” I told her.

In the week since they got the dog, my daughter has called almost every day with a question. Should we let the puppy cry at night? Does the runny nose mean allergies? I’m no expert but I’m on my fifth dog as an adult, and I’ve been through enough to be helpful.

I hope to be a grandmother some day. I think about what kind I’ll be: taking the kiddies to musicals and to farms and on long bike rides, sharing my favorite books, sitting them on the piano bench next to me as we play and sing. Sleepovers watching movies and eating the cookies we baked together. Morning pancakes shaped like bunnies.

“When you have kids, I’ll come and be your helper,” I tell my son and my daughter. To follow through on that promise I’ll need a big air travel budget or an RV that I can drive to get to them. One lives far west and the other far north right now, but that could change by the time they have their babies.

And someday as I watch my son and daughter carry and feed their own little ones, I might reflect back to find the moments that were the beginning of their parenting. Maybe I’m seeing it as my daughter tends to the new puppy. Somewhere in the phone calls for advice and the texted photos are the sprigs of what she and her family will be one day.

And come that day, as I watch her holding her own baby, my motherly urge will be to tell her a time will come when she’ll pick up that child for the last time. But I won’t tell her. The thought of it is just too sad.