The older the kids get, the happier I am that we have a dog. She, at least, seems to be excited to see me when I get home.
My kids haven’t gone feral or anything — well, no more than they already had — it’s just that they are usually too busy with their own stuff to pay much attention to me. Which is ideal, really.
It’s refreshing to not have to read “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” 4,000 times in the span of 30 minutes. I still have it memorized, frankly, and also love to have one nice green leaf after I’ve eaten my weight in sausages and chocolate cake.
But it would be nice the kids would look up from their electronic devices and/or homework long enough to acknowledge the fact that I’m in the room. The dog, however, never fails to track me around the house like a very short and fluffy shadow. Her hope, I think, is that I’ll drop something tasty. Still, she seems to care.
Unlike my eldest child, the dog also never corrects me. The Tween, who has always been a little persnickety about everything I say or do, has grown even more school-marm-ish about everything I have ever done ever or am thinking about doing in the future.
My clothes are a perennial embarrassment to her, especially those that I wear while running or change into before bed. I have thanked her for her concern.
But my biggest failing is talking, like on a recent trip to the grocery store.
It was a sunny day, which was a stark contrast to the previous rainy week.
“Look at that big ball of fire in the sky!” I said, jokingly.
“It’s not fire, mom,” she sighed. “The sun is made of plasma.”