I’m learning how to be a grandmother.
Via a dog named Rosie.
She is my son’s puppy.
Who doesn’t do things (dog or son) like I do.
My instinct is to blur several times a day. “Does this dog get any professional training?”
Again, she is not my dog.
Someday I’m not my child either.
I am not issuing an edict.
I find the tranquility of accepting what cannot be changed, the courage to change what can be changed, and the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut.
Holy restraint, in other words grandma.
Still, let’s start by saying that I don’t like being around undisciplined dogs and children while millennial sons enjoy the concept of free spirit a lot.
Let’s just say that in the unfortunate daily reality check, we now know that breeders don’t call Rosie the “Springer” spaniel. On the other hand, my son says that when Rosie jumps on people in greetings, he expresses the joy of living in a friendly way.
Also, let’s just say that I may not be a pet. This immediately guarantees to friends of animal rights, but does not mean that they do not love elks, buffalos, coyotes, deer, sloths and cows.
Pets just think I’m their mother.
And I have already raised three (human) toddlers.
With this in mind, after the death of the last dog five years ago (RIP, Toby), I decided that there would be no more animals under the roof.
Grandson, someday, yes, please.
Cats, dogs, fish, no.
COVID and Chris then offered to leave his life in Washington, DC to help during the pandemic.
I knew he would leave the vibrant social and work atmosphere and return to his boyhood bedroom in our idyllic little college town in the Midwest.
So when he suggested that the dog fill the gap, I created a cave, albeit with a mutually agreed warning. No dog weighs more than 40 pounds. There are no overly energetic varieties that jump on people. There are no dogs in the furniture. Dogs should be professionally trained.
So far, 0 is 0.
A year later, we have a very energetic 45-pound dog. He jumps at people with greetings. Chris does not have time for professional training and is allowed in his son’s bed. So she thinks she can ride my son. ..
The bed is a bed for toddlers / dogs.
And there is a challenge. And an opportunity.
It is up to him to decide how my son will ultimately raise a dog (child). This is the point of fact that I am aware of, with increased clarity and a bit of pain. That is, unless it invades my feng shui. And we’re talking about the art of bordering, that is, he can allow the baby to eat peanut butter from the jar with his fingers. But I come to say, “I’m not in my living room.” He can make people jump with greetings to his dog. But I start to say, “I’m not me or my friend.”
This is not always easy. I have one rule and Chris has another. So it’s good that he recently got his place.
Behind the scenes, I like (both) more.
Invisible, before I meet Rosie, I crouch in perspective and a few minutes.
Send a text message from the car to Chris. Come in. “
He knows to hold her down until I’m in the house and located. Walk through the door without fear of being knocked down.
Everyone wins, including Chris. Chris begins to understand the value of solid training techniques and how much control he can feel in his life.
What do you call it?
When everything is said and done, we moms / grandmas still always think our way is best, saint restraint or no.
KRT Mug Slugging Percentage: Hook KRT Photo via State (October 1) Debra-Lynn B. Hook (smd) 2004
Debra-Lynn B in Kent, Ohio. Hook has been writing about family life since 1988. Visit her website at www.debralynnhook.com. Send her an email to [email protected] or join her column’s Facebook discussion group at Debra-Lynn Hook: Bring Up Mommy.