About a year ago my inlaws were moving out of their house. I helped with the efforts, and as I was leaving I noticed a large white polar bear doll in the corner.
“Can I have that?” I asked.
Yes, you can.
The doll wasn’t exactly choice quality—it had initially been won at some sort of fair or theme park by my sister-in-law, Jessica. There was a small rip along the arm, too. But I felt bad for the dude. We humans tends to give life to inanimate objects, and I did, too.
So, it turns out, did my kids.
Emmett, my son, named the doll Mr. Poopie. And even though Mr. Poopie and Emmett and roughly the same size, they often slept together, side by side. Unfortunately, Mr. Poopie is sort of a piece of shit, and the one rip widened as another also formed. The thing was made in China, probably for 6 cents in a poorly-ventiled factory by workers making $1 a week. In other words, who the hell knows what’s inside?
Hence tonight, after the kids went to sleep, we said farewell to Mr. Poopie and placed him in the trash.
It was actually sorta sad.
Tomorrow will be worse—the kids don’t know he’s gone.
