The albums then lay for what? five years, maybe? untouched in my craft closet. I make myself feel better by pointing out that at least the room is temperature-controlled. This past weekend, I finally pulled the books out to look through them.
I had completely forgotten about this picture, taken when I was 9 years old and holding the only puppy we ever owned. He didn't stay long. My younger sister and I loved him dearly, but we were clueless about potty training. Our efforts consisted mainly in screaming, "Oh, no!" when we noticed him peeing on the floor and then rushing him too-late out the door. My parents were both working and didn't have time to deal with the mess, so they disentangled the puppy from my sister's and my grasping clutches and "gave him away." Although we did go on to own other dogs over the years, they were always grown and fully potty-trained when we brought them home.
Looking at my happy face in that picture reminds me how much I loved that little dog and makes me wonder if some small part of me hasn't been waiting all these years for a chance to make up for what my young mind considered my failure to save him.
Baby Lupine is 2 months old and, ahem, definitely not potty-trained . . . buy my children needn't worry. Lupine's here to stay.
Dinner last night: tuna casserole
Exactly one year ago: