Still Feelin' the Pride

Here comes that feeling again. It comes and goes. Not as frequently as it did in the past, but it’s recognizable nonetheless. It’s that feeling I got when my son stood on the podium at a wrestling tournament. Or the feeling I had when I watched my other son performing on stage at Big Ticket, a Christian music festival in Gaylord. I call it Mom Pride. Now that my boys are grown the mom pride is still there, but it comes and goes less frequently as they move into their adult lives. It’s not a touchdown announcement over the loudspeaker in a football stadium; it’s more like someone telling me my son has had an impact on her child’s life. But I’m not even talking about that. The mom pride feeling I’m talking about recently came about because of my dog, Betsy. Betsy is an 18 month old Border Collie/Australian Shepherd mix. To say she has been a challenge would be an extreme understatement. After the first week of sweet, cute puppy, emerged the Tasmanian Devil. She has an exuberant amount on energy that never, ever slows down. This winter I have spent more time outdoors than ever before in my 49 years of life. Betsy plays and plays and plays and plays. So it probably won’t surprise you to know that we have been reluctant to let her stay home, unkenneled during the day. The image of those YouTube videos of guity dogs standing in front of a destroyed couch with the owners saying “Did you do that?” haunted me. But the guilt of having this full-of-energy dog spending her days cooped up in a 4x5 kennel eclipsed the worry of returning home to a “stuffingectomy” of my couch cushions. We started by having her spend nights outside of the kennel. After about a week of no destruction we decided to let her try a few hours on her own, kennel-free. When I arrived home I searched the house, looking for some evidence of destruction, only to simply find a warm spot on the couch where she had spent her time patiently watching for our return. So the next day we jumped. 8 hours. No kennel. I drove home with trepidation, wondering what I would find. A dead cat? Shredded couch cushions? A chewed up coffee table? When I walked in to a wiggly, wagging, mass of black and white fur, there was no destruction to be had, not anywhere. Success! What followed was that old feeling of Mom Pride that rivaled straight A report cards and Christmas Eve service solos. “I am so proud of Betsy right now,” I gushed to Tom. I was proud of my dog? You bet. With hard work comes success and with success comes pride. Mom Pride.