Misplaced Blame

I yelled at the dog today.

Yeah, I know. Doesn’t sound like a big deal. Dogs get into things. But you haven’t heard the whole story.

Imagine it:

You come home from work, tired and cranky because you’ve been on your feet and dealing with ungrateful, entitled customers all day. As soon as you walk in the door, you almost trip over the dog who’s “welcoming” you home by jumping up and trying to knock you down. And then you see a mess. It looks like half the contents of the book case are strewn about the living room, on the tables and chairs, and there’s paper everywhere.

So, of course, you yell at the dog.

And that’s when your 16-year-old daughter and her friends come in from the other room to see what’s going on. And that’s when you realize that those aren’t books and paper from the bookshelf, but school work and notebooks.

But you can’t really yell at the kids, because at least they’re doing school work.

But did they have to make such a mess?

Not sure if it’s the hormones and menopause or what, but I ended up storming off in a huff and leaving the kids and the dog confused.

Love and Balance,

Teresa

 

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