Last Easter my daughter got a neat little toy -- a chickie that fits in the palm of your hand and is made of some kind of rubber/sponge substance. When you put it in water, submerged for several days, it grows to be about 4 times its original size.
Over the last year Lucy has had this poor chickie in and out of the water so many times to watch it grow, then dry it off and let it shrink, only to start the metamorphosis over again. But when she went to take a bath last night, chickie's head somehow got twisted and ended up barely hanging by a rubber thread. Oops!
Earnest waling and mourning ensued.
John and I teetered between hilarity and horror, knowing if we laughed at the odd sight of this chipper chickie whose head was barely still attached it would negate Lucy's feelings, and if we overreacted at the tragedy of the loss of this beloved toy that it would fuel her sobs. We tried as calmly as we could to express that we understood her sadness without going overboard.
Then she asked us if we could tape it. I accidentally let a little chuckle slip out. Tape seems to be the cure-all in Lucy's world, and I certainly wish it was on most days. But clearly, no amount of scotch, masking, or duct tape would fix this chickie's ill.
We had her say goodbye and sent chickie to trash heap heaven.
It became most clear to me through this event that our family is nowhere near ready for a real pet -- especially one with a short life expectancy!
3 weeks ago