We have a sun room in our house that I use as my office. By office, I’m referring to a desk with piles of papers, a bookcase filled with cookbooks I never use, and a couch for lounging on when I read the latest novel for book club, which I also have never done.
The room faces our backyard and this morning, I looked out and watched the trees blow softly in the wind. It was soothing and calm. One of those moments where you smile and breathe in life.
As I was breathing, I moved my chair slightly and heard the crunch. I looked down and saw that I had squished the life out of my son’s Sophie the Giraffe. She was pinned under the bottom of the chair, gasping for breath. When I released her, her squeak was gone and she laid there, pathetically dead on the ground. I had killed Sophie in my moment of Zen.
I quickly weighed my options. Keep Sophie and deal with the constant frustration of my son trying to make her squeak, or toss Sophie in the trash and continue denying that I know where she is or what happened to her. I chose the latter and quickly tossed her in the trash deep under papers and crap to keep her hidden from little ones who open the trash can for fun.
One hour later, I’m throwing away our lunch leftovers and go to push down the trash that is getting full (I like to wait until the last possible moment to take out trash) and wouldn’t you freakin’ know it… I hear that damn squeak. Sophie resurrected herself from the dead.
A good mother would have reached down into the garbage and pulled her out from under the orange peels and peanut butter sandwich crusts. But yeah, you can guess what decision I made. Sorry, Sophie, I’m sure karma is going to kick me in the ass for this one, but one less toy that makes noise in my house is one more minute of sanity for momma.