Truth: Sometimes it feels that everyone is ahead of me. Engaged, married, taking vacations, getting great promotions, booking shows, buying houses, owning cars, and getting ready to have their eighth, ninth, tenth child.
I’m over here: Here’s me and my dog snuggling in bed. She bit me twice Tuesday because I wouldn’t let her stick her paw down the bathtub drain. She barks constantly at every leaf that blows past the window. She jumps on everyone who comes in the door. She doesn’t answer to her name. She desperately wants to eat the neighbor’s cat and all other cats in the United States. She slipped her collar. She growled meanly at the old dog up the street who can barely walk. She continually tries to eat bees no matter how many times I lament that it’s a bad idea.
After she snapped at me I laid in bed and cried. I was so mad. My hand hurt. I felt scared. I wasn’t doing this perfectly, I wasn’t doing this right. I’m bad at something as simple as getting a dog to listen to me. She hurt my feelings more than she hurt my hand.
But my temporary anger doesn’t mean that I don’t want to protect her. Or take care of her. Or keep her.
Love is forgiveness. Love is patience. Love is harder, sometimes, than it looks on Instagram.
But here’s a portrait through John’s eyes of me and Bella. It looks peaceful. And relaxing. And almost saintlike in it’s outer most glowing end of day frame. Young dog-motherhood. Almost 31.
Needing a bed frame.
Completely overwhelmed. Full of grace.