BIRDIE AND HARLOW

Taylor Wolfe is a professional funny person on the internet. She is the writer behind The Daily Tay blog and founder and creative director of online clothing stores, The Taylor Wolfe Shop and Chilly Wolfe. Her work has been featured in TODAY!, the Dodo, and more.

“An engaging debut with a lighthearted memoir of her tender relationship with her dog, Harlow, and her rocky path to becoming a mother… A sweet homage to a beloved pet.” —Kirkus Reviews

“A crucial read for those who have ever loved a pet deeply and for those looking for a narrative about the importance of connections and relationships, especially the unexpected ones.” —Library Journal

“The buoyancy of Wolfe’s warm, witty storytelling will keep readers rapt–tearing up one minute and laughing the next…Birdie & Harlow is a lively, spirited memoir about how a dog named Harlow rallied a young couple who faced many challenges on the way to parenthood.” —Shelf Awareness

I don’t know how I got this way—how I turned into the person who struggles to be away from their child for more than a night. Now, a dog, I understand. Because dogs are the best. They just want to love you and be near you, and when you leave a dog, they don’t seem to know if you’re ever coming back. Which is why I chose to rarely leave my dog—it simply wasn’t worth the risk.

But a kid? Well, I was sure that would be different. Because I would be different. If I ever decided to become a mom, which seemed rather unlikely for a large part of my life, I was going to be a chill mom.

I was never going to be that annoyingly sentimental woman I saw all over social media—the one sobbing on the first day of kindergarten, blubbering at every outgrown custom-embroidered cardigan that had to be packed away forever. I scoffed and shook my judgmental little head from afar as I heard stories about moms who hadn’t spent a night away from their children until they were ten years old. That’s an entire decade of attachment issues!

“That will never be me,” I’d tell Harlow, my beloved vizsla pup.

“I’d hope not!” he’d respond from my lap. (Yes, Harlow talked.) “Now let’s go try out that new life jacket you bought me. Boy am I glad you finally found a more dog-inclusive kayak rental.” (Harlow and I had indeed kayaked in the Chicago River together, and like most of our last-minute high jinks, it didn’t really go that well.)

I think about my and Har’s kayaking adventure as my beloved human child, Birdie, tries on a new swimsuit for our upcoming vacation, and the 2T size barely fits her anymore, and suddenly I’ve become the blubbering fool, weeping over a swimsuit that no longer fits. It’s two p.m. on a Tuesday, and I am crying over a swimsuit! It’s ridiculous and I know it’s ridiculous, but that doesn’t stop me.

How did I miss the signs I was doomed to become this way?

Our entire Christmas tree was covered in ornaments with my dog’s face on them, and yet I somehow assumed I wouldn’t be a sentimental human mom. Was I that delusional? It’s a definite possibility—it always is. The devil works hard, but my delusions work harder. Or was it the fact that I held so tightly to the belief that I wasn’t a “baby person” for so long that I thought this might shield my vulnerability in some way? I honestly don’t know which it is, and I suppose it doesn’t matter. What matters is that in a very short amount of time, I became the woman I never understood. Even worse, perhaps.

My chest tightens if I look at a photo of Birdie taken six months ago and I can’t remember every single thing we did that day. What words was she saying? What foods was she eating? Was she crawling or walking? Why can’t I remember? Why didn’t I document it in one of the ten baby books I keep? A heavy sense of regret settles deep in my soul because if I can’t remember, surely that means I missed it.

But I didn’t miss it! I lived it. I lived it like I live any other day, and then came another. I wasn’t like this before I had a baby, where I’m suddenly nostalgic for any mundane moment that has come and gone simply because it happened. Every once in a while, a whisper of reason reaches the surface and reminds me that it’s okay if I don’t remember every single second of Birdie’s life. But the fact I even have to remind myself of this? Well, it makes me feel insane. And it’s just one of the many reasons why motherhood makes no sense.

I’m not sure who to blame for this behavior, but I’d like to blame someone (anyone!!) because it certainly can’t be my fault. I was never going to be this way, remember? I said it only a few paragraphs ago, which is precisely how fast it sneaks up on you—the heartache of motherhood, I mean. I don’t enjoy being caught off guard, especially when it comes to something that feels like it’s taken everything you thought you knew about life and turned it on its head, shaken it up a bit, turned it over once more, and then smothered it with a layer of sentimental longing that leaves you more confused than you were the day before. That’s kind of how motherhood feels to me. Like I am constantly missing who my child was yesterday (even if yesterday was an absolutely brutal no-nap kind of day) while still cherishing and loving who my child is today and wondering who they might be tomorrow.

I’ve heard some moms say they don’t remember life before they had kids, but I do. I remember the car rides. And the vacations, flying to get to those vacations, ordering a drink on a plane—alone! What a thrill. And the leisurely grocery runs, trips to Target without begging Birdie to please just stay seated in the cart, for the love of God, stay in the cart for five more minutes. I remember sleeping, like really sleeping, and in bedsheets not covered in milk or marker or with a few random magnetic tiles hiding under the pillows. I remember it all. And as I allow my mind to do so, to make the list of all the things that were so much simpler before having a kid, I still choose the kid. Sappy (often completely unnecessary) heartache, constant worry, and all.

I tell Chris, my husband, that I desperately need some alone time, but I’ll need everyone to come along. Him, the baby, the dog—everyone’s gotta be there.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say without hesitation.

“But why?”

“I have no idea.”

I finish packing Birdie’s bag and say, “You ready to go on an adventure?”

She claps her small hands together and says, “Yay, let’s go!”

As we walk out of her nursery, we pass the framed photos on the wall, and she pauses to point at everyone and say their names. “Dadda, Mama, Birdie.” And when we get to the final frame on the wall, Birdie will reach for the face she sees there and in her sweetest little baby voice say, “Hah-low.”

It’s Harlow’s senior portrait, the one where he’s photoshopped into a fancy black suit. Then Birdie will rest her head on my shoulder, and we’ll stand there for a second longer, both saying hi to our boy. Hi, Har. Hello, sweet boy.

And it makes sense.