I’m not really sure where to start. I’ve been lying awake at night, replaying the last few months in my head, wondering how everything changed so quickly. It feels like I blinked, and the life I had with my dog—my first “baby,” in a sense—suddenly morphed into this strange new world where he barely recognizes me. Or maybe I’m the one who’s changed and I’m too scared to admit it.
I guess the beginning is a good place to start. I adopted my dog, Benny, about four years ago. He was this fluffy bundle of energy who turned my entire apartment upside down. Back then, I was living alone, fresh out of college, and just starting my career. Benny gave me purpose and routine: I had to get up early to walk him, make sure I came home on time to feed him, and spend evenings playing tug-of-war or tossing a squeaky ball around. He became the anchor that kept me grounded during a time when everything else felt so uncertain.
I’d always wanted kids one day, but Benny was my stand-in child for a while. When I met my partner, Benny was the first family member they had to “win over.” He’s usually friendly, but he’s protective in his own goofy way. Lucky for me, my partner fell in love with him almost as quickly as they fell in love with me. It wasn’t long before we moved in together, and Benny went from a tiny apartment to a cozy house with a backyard. Life felt so perfect. We were a little family—just the three of us.
Then came the news that changed everything: I was pregnant. We were over the moon, telling everyone we knew, planning out the nursery, reading every baby book under the sun. Throughout all of this, Benny remained his happy-go-lucky self, albeit a bit confused by the sudden shifts in furniture and the ever-growing belly I carried around. He’d rest his head on my stomach as if he knew something important was happening in there. I used to dream about how he’d be the best “big brother,” how he’d curl up at the foot of the baby’s crib, or follow them around once they started crawling.
But as my due date got closer, everything got busier. My partner and I were juggling work, doctor’s appointments, childbirth classes, and a never-ending list of baby prep tasks. I still tried to make time for Benny—morning walks, quick play sessions—but I won’t lie, my energy levels were dropping. Sometimes, I’d come home from work exhausted and collapse on the couch, ignoring Benny’s wagging tail. I told myself it was just a phase, that I’d bounce back after the baby arrived, and we’d all settle into a new routine together.
Then the baby came, and that’s when reality really hit. The first few weeks were a blur of sleepless nights, diaper changes, feedings, and frantic calls to my mom or my friends for advice. Benny, who was once the center of attention, found himself sidelined. It wasn’t intentional, but in the chaos of adjusting to a newborn, it felt like there just wasn’t enough time or energy to give him what he needed.
He’d wander into the nursery, sniff around, then look at me with these big eyes, as if asking, “What’s going on? Why aren’t we playing?” Sometimes, he’d try to nudge my arm while I was feeding the baby, but I’d brush him off or give him a quick pat without really engaging. It breaks my heart to think about it now, but in those moments, I was so focused on keeping the baby calm and fed that I barely noticed Benny slinking away with his head down.
My partner tried to step in, taking him for walks or offering treats, but they were also exhausted and juggling a million things at once. We even considered hiring a dog walker, but money got tight, and we felt like we needed to handle this ourselves. So Benny got a fraction of the attention he used to, and slowly, I could see him becoming more withdrawn. The wagging tail wasn’t as frequent. He stopped jumping up to greet me at the door. Instead, he’d just watch from a distance, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be excited anymore.
The worst moment came about two weeks ago. I was in the living room, bouncing the baby in my arms, trying to soothe a colicky cry that had been going on for hours. Benny approached, tail wagging just a bit, and dropped a tennis ball at my feet. I snapped at him—something like, “Not now, Benny!”—and his whole body seemed to shrink. He backed away slowly, ears pinned back, and disappeared into the hallway. That’s when I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d played fetch with him. I sat there, tears rolling down my face, torn between comforting my screaming infant and wanting to chase after Benny to apologize.
It’s not that I don’t love him anymore. It’s just that every minute of my day feels accounted for: changing diapers, cleaning bottles, trying to catch a quick shower or a meal. My partner and I have had more arguments in the past few months than in our entire relationship prior. Stress is high, sleep is minimal, and sometimes it’s all I can do to keep from breaking down. Benny, once our ray of sunshine, has become another reminder of how overwhelmed I am.
And yet, I hate the idea that he feels replaced. I used to roll my eyes at stories of people who “gave up” their dogs after having kids, thinking I’d never be like that. Now I’m terrified that I’m on that same path without even meaning to be. I can’t imagine actually rehoming him—that would break my heart, and I know it would break his, too. But the guilt of not giving him the life he deserves weighs on me every single day.
I’ve tried to carve out little moments just for him. Like, if the baby’s down for a nap, I’ll sneak outside and toss the ball a few times. Or I’ll let him cuddle with me on the couch once the baby’s asleep for the night. Sometimes, those moments feel magical—like a tiny glimpse of our old bond. But then the baby wakes up crying, and I have to rush off, leaving Benny behind again.
My parents keep saying, “He’ll adjust,” or “Dogs are resilient.” And maybe they’re right. Maybe, in time, Benny will learn that the baby is just another member of the pack. But I see how his eyes have lost that spark. He’s cautious now, like he doesn’t want to get in the way or cause trouble. He used to be so carefree, so eager to nuzzle up to anyone who’d pet him.
There was a moment a few nights ago that gave me a glimmer of hope. I was sitting on the couch with the baby finally asleep in my arms, and Benny wandered over, head low, tail wagging hesitantly. I patted the cushion beside me, inviting him up. At first, he just stood there, unsure. Then he hopped up and curled into a ball next to me, resting his chin gently on my leg. I placed my hand on his fur, and we sat like that for a while—just me, the baby, and Benny. In that moment, I felt this rush of relief, like maybe we could figure out how to make this work.
I’m not going to lie—things are still rough. Every day feels like a juggling act, and sometimes I drop the ball (literally and figuratively). But I’m determined not to lose Benny in the process of raising my child. I’m learning that love doesn’t have to be divided; it can expand. Sure, the baby needs me in ways Benny never did, but that doesn’t mean Benny needs me any less. He’s older now, and maybe a bit more patient, but he still deserves attention, affection, and a sense of security in our home.
My partner and I have started talking about ways to bring him back into our daily routine more intentionally. Maybe it’s a short family walk each evening, even if it’s just around the block. Or we’ll take turns holding the baby while the other plays fetch in the yard. Little things that might not fix everything overnight, but hopefully show Benny that we still see him, still love him.
I don’t want to paint a picture of everything magically getting better. The baby still wakes up at odd hours, and we’re both exhausted. Sometimes, we forget to fill Benny’s water bowl on time, or we miss the signs that he wants to go out. We’re human, and we’re learning. But the difference is, I’m not letting myself fall into the trap of “I’m too busy for the dog.” Because deep down, I know that Benny was here first, and he’s part of the reason I’m even capable of loving someone so completely. He taught me how to care for another living being long before my child arrived.
So I guess I’m sharing this in the hope that someone out there understands the guilt, the fear, and the determination to do better. It’s not an easy road, and I know some days I’ll still snap at Benny out of sheer exhaustion. But I also know that every time I see him tilt his head in confusion or wag his tail in cautious excitement, I have a chance to reconnect with him. And I’m clinging to that chance, no matter how chaotic life gets.
If there’s one silver lining, it’s that maybe, as our child grows, Benny will have a new best friend. I can picture them playing together in the backyard, with Benny gently nosing the baby’s hand, teaching them how to throw a ball (or at least drop it). That vision keeps me going when I feel like I’m drowning in diapers and baby wipes. It reminds me that this is just a season, and with a little patience and a lot of love, we might come out on the other side stronger than ever.
I’m not sure how this story ends. Maybe we’ll figure out a perfect balance. Maybe we’ll stumble along the way, making mistakes and learning from them. But for now, I’m trying to focus on the moments of hope—like Benny curling up next to me and the baby on the couch, or wagging his tail when I walk through the door. Those little victories mean everything.
And I know that no matter how overwhelmed I get, I owe it to Benny to keep trying. After all, he’s given me unconditional love for years, and I refuse to let him become just another responsibility lost in the chaos of new parenthood. We’re a family—me, my partner, the baby, and Benny—and I’m holding onto that with everything I’ve got.