Before Robespierre was born I visualized him: what he'd look like, what kind of baby he'd be, whether I could ever forgive him for causing me so much relentless pain and nausea. After he came along I worried about whether I understood him, whether I'd bonded with him appropriately, whether I'd recognize him if he were stirred into a huge bowl 'o' babies.
As I worried and fretted about bonding, we bonded. I assimilated every pudgy finger and toe; the feel of his shiny, golden curls; the bells I heard ringing whenever he smiled that gummy grin. I learned his idiosyncrasies, his uniquenesses, his rhythms and habits. I knew what made him smile, laugh, settle down.
Before the Cupcake came along, I visualized her -- as another Robey. In my imagination she looked and acted exactly like her brother, and my worries about her usually had something to do with what effect she'd have on him. After two years of days, and closets, dominated by manly blue clothing (all right, the velour sleeper with the duck feet bordered on the ridiculous, but at least it was blue) I was shocked every time I saw the closet filled with pink and lavender.
I learned her too. I discovered her sleeping and eating patterns; her dimpled elbows; her smoochable cheeks; her ways of dealing with triumph and frustration; her brown hair and hazel eyes that in no way resembled her brother's.
How silly I was. How silly to think that my kids would be as alike as Oreos, when really they were as different as banana bread and apple pie (sorry -- did I take that metaphor too far?). There's no denying they're related; there's no doubt they adore each other (even when they fight); still, how foolish I was to believe that they'd turn out exactly the same.
By the same token, how silly of me to believe that our new puppy would channel her adoptive sister.
When Miss Puppy first arrived she'd hippity hop at the end of her leash, lunging to nip at our ankles and shins; when we walked her we looked like a clumsy version of Riverdance. I finally had to resort to spraying her in the face with citronella, which our dog trainer SWORE would not hurt her (it didn't) but would very effectively gain her attention (it did).
Little Miss? Walks placidly at the end of her leash, no pulling, always to my right. Good thing PetsMart was out of the citronella stuff when we bought puppy supplies, because I'd just have had to return it. Ditto the Gentle Leader: Miss Puppy never leaves the house without it (unless she's running away), while Little Miss has never needed it (so far, anyway).
Miss Puppy runs away from me. Little Miss runs toward me whenever I call.
Miss Puppy likes to wrestle and grab my wrists in her teeth. Little Miss can barely make herself lick my hand.
Miss Puppy greets strangers with the enthusiasm of a real estate agent. Little Miss runs toward me.
Little Miss was born in a puppy mill, the offspring of purebred champions who were mistakenly sold to people who wanted only breeding stock. She spent the first five months of her life in a cage. By the time she made it to our house, she'd had almost no socialization, and it's going to take her a while to adjust to our home and family. After two weeks with us she's devoted to me but still suspicious of the kids and strangers. Miss Puppy, on the other hand, began life as the center of attention and remained so after she came to us. She has self esteem to spare, and it shows. Once again I've been duped, and I can blame only myself. I was all prepared for Miss Puppy, Part II; instead I have Little Miss: The Beginning.
You'd think I'd have learned my lesson with the kids.
