You are an obsession, you’re my obsession

Hooper has regressed in his crate training. Badly. Where just a few days ago I was starting to bemoan the fact that, soon, leaving the house was going to be akin to forcing yourself to have sex when you’re having trouble conceiving. Where once is was fun and sought after, now it’s a grueling chore.

Right now, I’m desperately trying to figure out why my dog has regressed all the way back to “don’t leave me in this crate without you in the room or I’ll DIE” when we were all the way to leaving the house for 90 minutes with him in the crate with little to no obvious signs of stress.

I won’t deny that I obsess over problems. I will prod and examine them from every angle. I keep fastidious records of the problem at hand and I will diligently mull the issue over until I start to bleed from my ears. And, I am only mildly ashamed to admit, I have the tendency to call, email, and send my dog’s trainer smoke signals once a day for as long as it takes I hear back from her. It is, to say, not my most flattering trait.

Sean keeps trying to remind me that this is, in fact, not the worst thing in the world to happen. I, however, I can’t quite find the words to explain to him that, at this moment, the moment where estrogen is at a ragingly disproportionate level in my body; now is not the time to tell me that I need to gain some perspective. Now is not the time to tell me that life could be worse, because right now, I am in the mindset to make it worse.

Because I don’t know exactly what stressed the dog out to begin with, I’m at a complete loss with how to progress. I need someone to come over and tell me I’m not a bad mother. I want to cry, but I’m pretty sure that’s just hormones.