Mom’s Best Friend
There is a picture on the wall beside my desk that, so far, is the only framed and hung photo in the room. I had a vision for this room from the moment we walked through the open house. It’d be my library, writing office, and creative corner. I envisioned my very own little sanctuary with an aesthetic bookshelf, a desk big enough to hold my laptop but not so big that it would accumulate distractions, and a daybed for lounging, reading, or for guests to stay over. It wasn’t originally my intention to have only one photo hung on the wall, but the longer it’s there, the more it makes sense.
With my husband’s help, my vision became a reality. This room is where I wrote my first book, where I sneak away for quiet moments to read, and—now, as a new mother—it remains the only spot in the house that still feels entirely mine. But there’s one ever-important piece that makes this room a true sanctuary. Under one of the windows sits a yellow bench. This bench is not for me. It’s for Charlie.
There has been a dog in my life for as long as I can remember. My parents already had a German Shepherd named Duke before I was born. When I was a toddler, we got an English Bulldog puppy named Gidget, who I grew up with. Throughout grade school and into high school, we had three rescued Chihuahuas: JJ (short for Jobeth Junior), Taquito (who resembled the Taco Bell dog, but smaller), and Bulgogi (a joke that stuck). In college, I brought home a half-Chihuahua, half-Bichon, cotton-ball-looking fellow. I was going to call him Butterball, but my mom knew immediately—his name should be Charlie.
Charlie is fluffy, all white, and his big brown eyes and nose form the points of a perfect triangle. When you look at him straight on, they look like the holes on a bowling ball. I may have grown up with the other dogs, but Charlie was the one who watched me become a grown-up. He watched me come and go from college. He wished me luck with a few tail wags before job interviews. After long night shifts, he was the first one to greet me at the door in the morning with an unbridled joy that washed away any exhaustion or feelings of defeat from the night before. On evenings when I sat in my room and cried over the growing pains of adulthood, he was the one who sat beside me—quietly, lovingly. I adored hearing the clickity-clacks of his nails on the hardwood floor as he would mosey around or come to find me in another room. On the best days, I came home to Charlie. On the worst days, I came home to Charlie. Charlie and those bowling ball eyes were the consistent thread through the ever-changing world around me as I transitioned into adulthood.
When I got married and moved out, Charlie stayed home with my parents, but that didn’t stop us from having sleepovers. Almost every stint of days off, I would visit my parents and bring Charlie home with me. He would sit in the driveway by my dad’s feet as I said my goodbyes, trembling with hope that I would say the magic words, “Charlie, let’s go!” Like a bronco coming out of the gate, he would sprint straight to my car without looking back.
It may have been a different house than we were used to being in together, but with me there, he had no problem making himself right at home. He knew immediately that the yellow bench under the window was his. Lying on the bench behind me, he would look out the window, trying to spot any critters or cars going by. Every so often, he’d turn just enough to glance back at me, just to check in. I felt his gaze, turned around, looked at him, and time would stop for a moment.
It can be so easy to let the days go by on autopilot, but when Charlie and I lock eyes, it feels like when a character on a sitcom breaks the fourth wall. As though, after observing one another in our respective worlds for hours on end, we glance over as if to say, “I see you. I’m here with you.” Without saying a word, we were on the same page. On the same plane. I’d walk across the room to give him a pat on the head or a scratch under the chin, then we both went back to our own business.
Every morning after a sleepover, the first thing I would do was open the blinds, and Charlie would find his spot on the bench. The morning light was so beautiful, I couldn’t help but take a picture of Charlie, the yellow bench, and the sunshine. This very photo is the one I framed and hung on the wall.
Life is ever-changing. But what never changed were Charlie, his bowling ball eyes, and the way they looked at me— even in moments where I lost sight of myself.
As life changed, so did this room. The bookshelf was moved to a different corner. The desk was moved to the other side of the room. Shelves were added to the wall so I could clear some space. The yellow bench had to be moved to a different window. This one didn’t have as much of a view, but it was now right beside my desk. We needed the space for a bigger daybed. This would now be our designated guest room. The original room would be turned into a nursery. We had a baby boy. Charlie became a big brother.
You’ve probably heard it before— becoming a mother changes everything. Something I didn’t understand until I was in it was the reality that you now, continuously exist on two planes. On one, as the person you’ve always known yourself to be. She might be a work in progress, but you’ve gotten to know her your entire life. On the other, as a mother. Of your baby. Just as big a blessing as it is a change.
Every single thing you do and choice you make is suddenly within the context of something outside of you, yet simultaneously a part of you. Even the smallest things you used to take for granted suddenly become a massive decision, like brushing your teeth, taking time to enjoy your meal, or even using the restroom. In the moment, it seems like the easier choice to just let those personal things fall by the wayside, do what you need to for the baby, then get to yourself when you can. But the more you do it, the further away you drift from yourself. After weeks of doing this, you don’t realize how much you’ve slipped into one plane over the other. You don’t realize how far you’ve drifted until you forget what existed on your own plane even looked like.
When I would think back to life before having our baby boy, it was hard to personally connect with some memories. I could see it in my mind, but it didn’t feel like it was me who lived it anymore. I saw that woman as a different person, like a friend I was happy for. I am overjoyed in my life with my son, but there was certainly a time when it was as if I was getting to know myself all over again. As though I was as brand new as my baby. Granted, as a mother, I guess I was.
We eventually found our flow, though ever-changing it remains. The entire house was rearranged or changed to ensure our little guy had a safe place to grow and play. I adjusted and learned to recognize my windows of opportunity in which I could do things for myself or take care of my basic needs. I was dipping my toe back into the plane of my own. But I still couldn’t bridge the gap. Many things had still fallen by the wayside— one of them was Charlie.
Apart from the time my parents went on an international trip when our baby was two months old and we needed to dog-sit, Charlie and I didn’t have many sleepovers. We didn’t want him getting too close to the baby, and we didn’t want the baby’s screams or cries to scare Charlie. We visited, of course, but I didn’t get to hear the clickity-clacks on our floor much anymore. I thought about them often. I missed them. It was several months until he was back on his bench under the window.
My parents went on a trip, so Charlie stayed with us. So much had changed in our house, I was worried he would have to reacclimate—not to mention the fact that there was a nine-month-old babbling and crawling around the place now. From the moment he came bursting through the door, it was as though, to him, nothing had changed. His clickity-clacks were home. He shot right in, knew where to find his bowls, his bed, and most importantly, his bench. It was under a different window, but that gave him no pause. He found his spot and began his patrol of this new vantage point.
On the first evening of our reunion sleepover, I came out of the room after tucking the baby in for the night. I wondered if Charlie could sense how tired I was, how different I am from the person he used to know. Charlie followed me to the new version of our little sanctuary and got right up onto the bench as if no time had passed. I sat at my desk to write, just like old times. But of all the changes in that room, he did notice one— how close my desk was to his bench now. He was just an arm’s length away. With this new development, he sat as close to my desk as he possibly could, and he watched me type. He just looked at me, like he missed my clickity-clacks. I glanced over to find him looking at me just like he used to. It was overwhelmingly just like he used to. Those bowling ball eyes brought tears to mine.
Everyone in my life has been wonderful during my transition into motherhood, but just as my role in life has changed, I can see that I’ve changed in their eyes, too. It’s beautiful, and I’m so grateful to be seen as a mama, but everyone, including myself, now sees me on that plane. Charlie is the only one who sees me for who I’ve always been and in no other context than simply being me.
Suddenly, in those bowling ball eyes, I was taken back to all the times over the years I looked into them. Those were the eyes that looked up at me as I studied for my final exams in college. Those were the same eyes that greeted me in the morning when I finally got home after work. Those eyes were the first ones I would see when I would wipe the tears from my face. Those are the eyes that were patiently waiting for me, when I came out of the nursery after I kissed my baby good night. Those eyes sit on the bench beside me as I write this. Those are the eyes that will forever help me to see myself. The same eyes captured in the photo taken years ago—printed, framed, and hung in this room. Because it isn’t the desk, bookshelf, or even bench that makes this room the sanctuary it is. It’s Charlie. And his bowling ball eyes.