Before there was Beau, there was Max. Max is the type of dog who doesn’t miss Thanksgiving at Grandma’s house and gets a homemade cake every year on his birthday. So, you can imagine my apprehension about presenting a threat such as a tiny human into Max’s perfect little world . All of the parenting books will advise you how to go about introducing a pet to your new bundle of joy, but none of them can accurately prepare you for the reality that is to unfold.

Whenever I use my breast pump, Max stands at my feet with his mouth agape in astonishment and confusion. He looks up at me with puppy dog eyes, as if I’m going to sneak him some breast milk under the table like it’s scrap food. It’s normally a race between him and I to see who will clean the remnants of milk off of Beau’s face after a feeding. Max always seems to find the breast pads that have fallen out of my bra and by the time I realize that I’ve lost one, he has already taken shelter in a corner where he can secretly devour it. I would be lying if I said that Max hasn’t licked my boob a time or two. This is probably why I often find dog hair on my nipple and in Beau’s poopy diapers.

Max delights in the fact that Beau’s socks are bite size. The baby’s hamper is like a candy jar as it’s full of burp clothes covered in spit up and onesies that just barely survived a blow out.

Despite having a tub overflowing with dog toys, I always find Max with a plush baby blue rattle hanging out of his mouth. Max also seems to think that Beau’s activity mat is his and he’ll normally rest his head in a puddle of drool as he naps on it. Beau’s pacifier always goes missing because Max is harboring it in his mouth just waiting for someone to notice so they’ll chase him around the house for it.

Max has made it just about impossible for Brandon and I to stand by our first time parent virtues of eliminating germs and maintaining sanitary conditions for our delicate little new born. I think in a way, he has helped us become better parents. Max reminds us that babies are resilient little creatures that are absolutely not as cute as him.

Since becoming a mom, my google history has become inundated with questions from everything to how to properly store breast milk to is it normal to find dog hair in my baby’s poop? Most of the time google will direct me to a mom group to facilitate in fulfilling my many inquiries.

What I’ve realized about these mom groups is that they contain a secret language of abbreviated words that everyone seems to know but me. An abbreviation that I would stumble upon often is FTM. My overtired mom brain constantly mistook the M for a W and I was certain that FTM stood for, for the win. I eventually learned that this stands for, “first time mom.” It would come as no surprise that many of the questions I asked would most likely render an answer containing this abbreviation because who else would ask those questions except for a first time mom?

The older my son gets, the more I google, and continue to see this abbreviation. But as motherhood is really setting in, I no longer read FTM as, for the win, now it’s beginning to look more like WTF. This is no coincidence, am I right?