I have been instructed by my sweet husband to clean the toyroom before we can invite new toys into our home this Christmas season.
You see, in theory, I don't have a problem with that. After-all, this is what part (or the majority - whichever) of our toy room looks like...
(Seriously. Who keeps it more 'real' than
that?)
However, there's a little story I'd like to share with you about my Pookie. At one time, she was very attached to a cute little pink dog she'd received as a gift as a newborn. Under most circumstances, giving this miniature woof-woof a new home would not have been a problem. Pookie would have been none the wiser - she was, as it were, a baby at the time. Though I am often astounded by my children's memories - beloved stuffed pets from infancy don't seem likely to transcend the depths of their "Remembory Mind," as they call it. Yet, perhaps I do not give them credit. As, their mother (me) enjoys photography. And has been known to snap evidence, shall we call it, such as these:
So that, on the day Pookie reviews her baby book and happens upon these photos, with her somewhat obsessive 7 year-old passion for stuffed animals, she wonders where this cute little canine has gone. To her dismay - and mine - I chose to be honest. "We gave it away." And then commenced the afternoon of crying. Seriously. Hours. Howling better describes what ensued. Which might explain why, when my husband encourages me to clean the toy room up/out before Christmas, I hesitate, knowing the tears - or the lies - that destiny will bring me.
Nonetheless, he is right, of course. And much of our basement chaos MUST be uncluttered before Jesus' blessed birthday celebration, or we will be unable to dig out. And blog posts will be written from under 20 feet of Build-a-Bear wares...and Mickey Mouses.
Alas. Now that shelf looks like this:
And I've invested in a ear plugs.
