You’ve cried in a Petco. You’ve explained your dog’s personality to a stranger for nine full minutes without breaking eye contact. If a doctor asked you to recall the last 24 hours of your life with medical accuracy, you could account for every one of her bowel movements but not your own lunch.

That, my friend, is mothering.

This Sunday is Mother’s Day. And every year, someone – your aunt, a coworker, the woman at the dry cleaner – asks how you’re spending it. You say “with my dog.” And they do that thing with their face.

I want you to know: you don’t have to explain yourself.

Mothering isn’t defined by who you mother. It’s defined by how. And the how, for us, looks something like this:

We wake up 7 minutes before our alarms because that’s when she starts staring at us.

We have a full morning routine for her. A full nighttime routine. A “we just got home” routine. And a “we’re about to leave” routine.

We talk to her like she’s a full human being and respond in her voice with a specific accent. We have sat in an uncomfortable position for over an hour because she fell asleep on us and we refused to wake her.

We feel guilty leaving her home alone. Even for 20 minutes. Even though she’s literally just napping.

We add toppers to her food because she deserves bone apple teeth. We’ve justified at least three Amazon purchases with “well, it’s for her.” Our camera rolls have 1,000+ photos of her sleeping, blinking, sitting, existing. We’ve watched her breathe just to make sure she was. More than once. This week.

We call our parents her grandparents. (At my house, Grandma goes by Cookie Lady.) We introduce her before we introduce ourselves. We share our pillows with her and have stopped pretending this is a phase. We do a final potty break before bed every single night, no matter what. (Shoutout to Dog Dad for taking that shift more than half the time.)

We know her vet’s first name. The vet knows ours. We’ve considered making her an Instagram. (The real ones reading this already have.) We have a nickname for her. And a nickname for the nickname. And a song we sing when she does the thing.

We miss her when we’re away. Even for a few hours. We FaceTime her. She does not understand.

So.

If your Sunday plans involve a long walk, a special breakfast, and watching your pup exist for several uninterrupted hours…  that’s a Mother’s Day. A real one.

If someone gets you flowers, accept them.
If they don’t, buy yourself flowers à la Miley.
If brunch is happening, you’re invited.
If it isn’t, make one.

You are not a “fur baby parent.” You are not “basically” a mom. You are not “almost” anything.

You’re her mom. She’s your kid. End of list.

To all the girlies who love their dogs like flesh and blood… happy Mother’s Day. We love you, we see you, and you’re doing amazing, sweetie.

Treat yourself this Sunday… or send this article to Dog Dad as a very gentle hint.

The Darling Dog Mother’s Day Guide →

Forward this to a dog mom who needs to hear it.