Four Valentine’s Days and a 120-Pound Dog
Four Valentine’s Days ago, she was a literal grayscale alien taped to my refrigerator.
A black-and-white ultrasound. Peace sign in the air. Two tiny fingers up like she already knew exactly what she was about to do to us.
At the time, I thought it was cute, but now I realize it was branding.
Because here we are, four years later, and she is accessorized, opinionated, and occasionally tells me to “go away” in my own house.
The confidence.
The consistency.
The absolute commitment to the bit.
Valentine’s Day One:
Ultrasound blob. Peace sign. Soft launch.
Valentine’s Day Two:
Milk-drunk baby. Entire personality: survival and screaming.
Valentine’s Day Three:
Best friends with a dog the size of a loveseat.
Valentine’s Day Four:
Red dress. Tiny purse. Fully self-assured.
She is a 25-pound child who confidently gives commands to:
One 120-pound livestock guardian.
Two full-grown pit bulls.
And they listen. (Mostly.)
I have personally witnessed a 25-pound human point at a 120-pound dog and say, “No Grampy. Sit.”
And he does.
If you had told Ultrasound Me that one day my daughter would be directing three large dogs like a ranch foreman while also informing me she needs “privacy,” I would have assumed I was dehydrated.
And yet.
Somewhere between that peace-sign ultrasound and the red-dress Valentine’s Day, she developed this unshakable sense of belonging. Of authority. Of being exactly where she’s supposed to be.
She tells me to go away sometimes.
She tells the dogs what to do constantly.
She carries a purse with nothing in it but power.
And I stand there thinking:
How did we get here?
Why is time moving at light speed?
Who approved this growth rate?
I am so grateful it’s happening.
And also deeply offended by the speed.
Motherhood is strange like that.
You tape a blurry image to the fridge and whisper prayers over it. You wait. You hope. You plan.
And then suddenly that grayscale alien is bossing around livestock guardians and managing household dynamics with shocking authority.
Every version has been my favorite.
The pixel version.
The baby version.
The dog-obsessed version.
The tiny dictator version.
I thank God often that I get to be her mom.
Not because I’m perfect.
Not because I never lose my patience.
But because I get a front row seat to watch a soul grow into herself.
Four Valentine’s Days.
From peace sign ultrasound to red-dress commander of canines.
I don’t know who approved this growth rate, but I am so thankful it was approved.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Haisley. ❤️
Meanwhile… “No Grampy. Sit.” echoes through my living room while a 120-pound livestock guardian complies, two pit bulls observe, and I quietly reconsider my position in the household hierarchy.