Sometimes I feel bad for Oliver because I think he really got the wrong Mommy. Honestly, I don't think I'm cut out for this line of work. I have no patience. None. Zero. Zilch.
Sometimes, when I'm having an especially bad day, Oliver looks up at me with a kind of questioning look as if to say: "Are you my Mother?" and just like in the book I want to reply to him: "No. I am the Dog." Or, "No. I am the mommy that you got. But you were really meant to have a much more patient, understanding mommy. Your real mommy wouldn't mind sitting with you while you are on the potty for the millionth time today only to clean up an accident 5 minutes after we get up. And your real mommy wouldn't be impatient with you when you absolutely object to wearing THAT shirt for no apparent reason. Or when you insist on always playing with Percy the train in just that way.
I mull this kind of thing over when I go into the kitchen at night after my dear, wonderful, amazing husband has just cleaned up from dinner and I put away random items where they really belong because there are just certain ways that things are done because that is the way it has always been and the way it always should be. He doesn't know this because he is a man. I think this to myself as I carry the laundry that he has done to the top of the stairs and un-fold, then re-fold properly all of the towels because that is the way they should be stored in the closet. Then, before climbing into bed I straighten the sheet and put the comforter on the right way: with the dark green border at the top. I sleep better if the sheets aren't all wrinkled up and the border just goes at the top. Aesthetically, I mean. It's better that way.
I used to try to explain these things to dear husband. He would always listen patiently to me explain why something should be done a certain way and then go ahead and continue doing it his way thereafter. I stopped explaining and now just concentrate on being happy to have a true domestic partner.
Lucky for me, Oliver has exactly the right Poppi.