It’s my child’s week to take home the class pet.
So instead of doing 36 other things that I should be doing instead of this, I’m sitting at my kitchen table and following in the footsteps of five other preschool parents before me by writing in a surprisingly well-maintained composition book and staging this photo to make it look like I tried 🙂
Because, well, I did try.
Problem is, I haven’t wanted to find myself washing and wringing out red clay and chicken poop and/or laboriously sewing up this stuffed dog before his impending release to a new family, so I’ve kept him pretty isolated.
Because we’re looking at a 2002 vintage on this little pup, I cannot just run up to Wal-mart to replace him.
And he didn’t come with muck boots.
And since I can’t find a overnight pull-up that works for our level of pre-bed water consumption, he can’t sleep with my little one either. . . Because I just wouldn’t do that to the next host family.
But he’s pretty much been discarded anyway.
Which means it’s up to ME to make sure this dog has adventures all week so that they can be read about in class come Friday. And I can save face for being late to school almost every morning this year (if my husband reads this last sentence I’ll just say it was grossly exaggerated, you with me?).
The other problem is: my perfectionist child WOULDN’T stop staging the real cat and dog outside the kitchen window after I already got a picture of the class dog “enjoying” his stay with us.
Which means that while trying to write something clever in the class log (a project which I will probably return three days early so that I’m don’t spend half a day scouring ebay for a replacement dog), I’m was also monitoring an impending meltdown if my backyard pets did not consent to behave like stuffed animals, immediately.
So I had to intervene.