If you’re a parent of a school-aged child chances are you’ll
have to spend at least one weekend hosting a stuffed bear or duck
or frog.
If you’re a parent of a school-aged child chances are you’ll have to spend at least one weekend hosting a stuffed bear or duck or frog.
Let me explain. It seems that nowadays, along with computers and VCR’s and math manipulative kits, most classrooms are equipped with cute animals named Fluffy or Smoochy or Snowball that children get to bring home with them for the weekend. On top of that, each animal comes with a journal so your child can record exactly what kind of time it had with your family.
Now, while this may sound harmless, perhaps even fun; let just me warn you now that, on the following Monday, your child will read their journal entry out loud to the class. Which means that on top of public humiliation, there is now written documentation of just what kind of shoddy household you run.
But, face it, kids love this kind of stuff. Which is why we keep on doing it. And it’s really not that bad, I mean once the animal arrives home, you have almost 15 good minutes before panic sets in. And, believe me, it will.
Take, for instance, the time my 7-year-old son brought home his classroom’s stuffed dog, Scruffy. Now, the first thing you do is to go on and on about how lucky your child is to have been picked for such a special honor and all that.
The next thing you do is to read the journal to see just how the other families spend their weekends. Now some of you out there may be thinking that this is sneaky and a tad voyeuristic. And it is. But I’m OK with that.
According to the journal, Scruffy had been to the library and circus; to car shows, several birthday parties and grandparent’s houses; to museums and zoos and even Disneyland. In short, Scruffy was the kind of dog used to being shown a good time.
Suddenly I flashed forward to Monday morning when my son read a journal entry that went like, “This Saturday Scruffy slept in until noon, ate potato chips and apple sauce for breakfast, and then went with my family to Wal-Mart to buy violent video games.”
OK, maybe I’m slightly exaggerating. We would never buy violent video games. Nevertheless, you can imagine just what kind of pressure I was under.
And, sure enough, after just a few hours at our house, I swear Scruffy had a bored look on his furry face. I think I even heard him sigh.
So I did the only think I could think of: I called my friend Julie for advice.
“I have to entertain a stuffed dog,” I said. “What should I do?”
“Why don’t you call Shirley,” she said dryly. “I think she has a monkey sock puppet over this weekend.”
“Very funny,” I said. “I need to plan a special outing so we have something interesting to write in the journal.”
“Does it like karaoke?”
I could tell she wasn’t going to be much help. So I next tried my friend Karen, and then my friend Paula. I heard all sorts of stories about classroom bunnies, teddy bears and koala bears. And one particularly traumatic tale about a lost Beanie Baby duck that, out of sheer desperation, was replaced by stuffed turkey which, of course, didn’t fool anyone come Monday morning.
But I digress.
Sure, I could just encourage my son to make something up and be done with it. Perhaps just a missive or two about Scruffy meeting the president or seeing Paris in the spring or schmoozing with Brad Pitt. But that’s probably not a lesson I should be teaching my son, and besides, people would instantly see through my flimsy charade.
So in the true Farmer spirit of things I decided to do what I usually do best: take the path of least resistance. We took Scruffy with us to go shoe shopping at the mall and afterwards, the grocery store. Later, he played outside until my daughter captured him and dressed him in pink chenille sweater and a Kleenex veil and married him to a lonely stuffed octopus named Earl. We topped off his stay with a tour of the inside of the washing machine and dryer.
And, yes, it would be stretching it to say it was the most thrilling weekend Scruffy ever had, but he did arrive back to the classroom much cleaner and better smelling.
Sometimes, that’s the most you can ask for.
