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The drives to work are always a treasure trove of wisdom imparted unto me by my wise and sage four-year old. One day last week this nugget started with a very quiet, “Mommy?” Oh boy, here we go, I thought to myself. “Yes, peanut?” I replied aloud.
“Mommy, wouldn’t it be funny if we bought enough friends to fill the house and it exploded?” (don’t call the authorities; we are not purchasing live friends, but the stuffed, fuzzy variety) Oh my furry loving offspring, don’t you know we almost have that many already? “Yes, that would so funny to have them fly all over the neighborhood. I bet they would have so much fun.”
The rest of the drive consisted of her completing a not so quiet rundown of her friends and which ones we would need to go to the store to get next. To which I respond with a desperate swallow of panic. Please don’t mention this one. Please don’t mention that one. Why the panic?
You see, some of her most loved furry friends went to the furry friend heaven. Many months back, though the memories still haunt me, we had 13, yes 13, larger than the average size garbage bags of Maddie’s most valuable friends banished to the confines of the garage for much, much longer than the pediatrician’s recommended two weeks. If you know why every scrap of fabric covered friend found itself bagged and banished, then you can commiserate. If you don’t know, you don’t want to know. Promise.
Upon the welcoming un’banishment ceremony, my steel trap four-year old lined those suckers up and like a drill sergeant walked along the line taking attendance. The line that went around the living room, up the stairs, down the hall, around her room, back down the hall, and back down the stairs. Every few minutes she would take a look down the line, furrow her brow, and shoot me a glare.
“Mommy where is my daddy penguin? Mommy where is my little polar bear? Mommy where is my froggy pillow? Mommy? Mommy, where are you?! MOMMY!!!!”