Last week I ordered a back up dou dou for Rosie. Her teddy bear ear sucking addiction had transformed to a new level and I found myself powerless in any attempt to wash the poor little guy. A little spit on a stuffed animal might be socially acceptable, but two ears mangled and smelling of a combination of fruit puree and vomit is not.
Such fun to watch the look on the faces of the women at the creche when I would hand over the precious stinky dou dou and quickly run outta there before they could ask when was the last time I washed it. Hence, the need for a back up.
The doppelganger arrived last week and much to my delight, I was able to swap the new dou dou in without a worry. Stinky dou dou finally had a much needed bath at 95°C, followed by a cut and blow dry in our very nice "salon." Since then, the two of them have been happily taking turns being chewed and slobbered on.
Thing is, I'm feeling so guilty about all this. Every time I put Stinky in the laundry basket, I feel these pangs that I'm selling him out or that I've given Rosie permission to cheat on him with this other bear. It's like he stares at me from the basket, trying to escape the smell of Hubster's dirty socks, whimpering, "Rosie! Rosie!" I just feel horrible.
I'm sure this manifestation of Catholic guilt towards a stuffed animal has got to go back to watching too much Toy Story and reading The Velveteen Rabbit when I was young. I'm so convinced all these stuffed animals come alive at night and rearrange the furniture in the kids' room because, really, can three kids make that much of a mess in just a few hours?
Wait. Don't answer that.
Let's get back to feeling guilty over inanimate objects...
I decided to have a "man to man" with the dou dous yesterday and set things straight. They had a good look at each other's war wounds, discussed the pleasures of the spin cycle, and decided that what matters most is that Rosie isn't ever without one of them.
Take that, Catholic guilt.