Waiting for pizza

My husband is on his way home with pizza. Cheese, no doubt. I’ve preheated the oven, so now I wait. Not that I’m terribly hungry considering the Girl Scout cookies I just munched. The kids are building houses and gardens in Minecraft.

So I stare out the window at the gray sky and the grayish snow patches in my yard which will soon be turning to its usual mucky spring puddle. I’ve been waiting for spring, too.

My puppy waits at the back door for someone to either open it and let her in or come out and play with her. Play with her means chasing her around the yard while she carries a toy in her mouth. She’s not a fetcher, but she is a tugger and a runner. Sometimes she scratches at the door, if sitting there isn’t working, but mostly, she sits with her nose at the door waiting, waiting.

I don’t often wait well. If I’m at a coffee shop with a book or pen and paper waiting for a friend, I could wait all day. But if I’m stuck, if my next move is dependent on someone else’s move, like getting picked up at the airport or scheduling plans or doing projects, I don’t wait well at all. Luckily, I’m hardly ever at the airport. Unluckily, those other two happen a lot. No getting around it, plans and projects will happen and people will drop the ball (sometimes me) and I will be impatient, anxious, irritated.

Who said, “God give me patience and give it to me now”? Yeah, that would be good.

Well, the pizza is cooking, the pup has run off some steam, and I’ve written a post.

Write with me: I’m patient when… or I’m impatient when…


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