There’s nothing I can do about it. And that’s straight from the mouth of your resident doggie optimist. All I can say is poor dad. There’s nothing he can do about it either, and yet I’d say he’s got it a lot worse than I do. He can’t win either.
Battle baby bump royale has commenced in the Schmidt household. And it isn’t pretty. CORRECTION: the emotions aren’t pretty (that is exactly the kind of comment that would throw dad to the dog house right quick). We all knew it would happen eventually. And at 22 weeks along, I’m honestly kind of surprised it didn’t happen sooner. But now that it’s here? It’s like world war three is happening right there in my mom’s closet.
Nothing fits right, which is uncomfortable, which causes frustration, which causes tension, which causes friction. It’s the snowball of doom. The next thing you know there are tears involved (and not the joyful kind). It’s a bloody awful thing to witness, mostly because I know dad and I both favor the popular opinion that pregnant women and their baby bumps are to be embraced. Not sucked, tucked, and squeezed into all sorts of uncomfortable looking elastic contraptions.
This all came to the surface a few days ago when mom couldn’t figure out what to wear for a Friday night on the town. Like most women (sorry ladies, you know it’s true), it’s not unusual for her to spend a great deal of time picking out the perfect outfit. But I’ve noticed a trend lately that this not only takes longer, but it never seems to end well.
Except for the other night. Sure, it took the usual turn for the worse when mom threw aside the sixth outfit in disgust. But dad handled it like a champ. They left home for a while, and when they returned spirits were lifted and all seemed well again. They came home with a few bags filled with delicious smelling clothes I couldn’t wait to get my paws on.
It didn’t take much. Mom hardly has a whole new wardrobe. But it didn’t take me long to figure out it’s not about the clothes. Or the bags they come in. It’s about the patience. The unconditional love. The excitement of things being restored. I don’t know what dad said to mom on their car ride (since they ditched me at home) but whatever it was sure did the trick. There’s no winning for dad and I in this particular chapter of life. (It’s best for us to just keep our distance from the war zone). But there is peace in believing the words of Saint Augustine. “Patience is the companion of wisdom.”
Wiley's Wisdom 