Find George
I was out late last night -- way past my normal 10:30 p.m. bedtime -- cruising the darkened streets of Helena, Montana in search of a short, squat little thing named George.
"What's this?" you, dear reader, ask. "Has Sara re-claimed her once glamorous, man-getting lifestyle -- a lifestyle her married friends would hear about and then sigh wistfully, wishing they too could have the excitement of a revolving bedroom door, a closetful of designer clothes, and an exciting career that took them to exotic locales?"
Ha ha ha, dear reader. I have no energy for such endeavors anymore. No, it was nothing so exciting. Instead, I was out driving around in the middle of the night in my mama-mobile looking for a stuffed monkey that we lost on a long walk. A stuffed monkey that my son very affectionately refers to as "George", after that curious little imp we all know and love.
This tragedy could have been averted. Prior to leaving on our walk, my son was hugging and kissing his stuffed monkey. It was so damn cute that I very carefully tucked George into the Mercedes Benz stroller next to Mikey as his traveling companion for the walk.
And did we walk. About 2.5 - 3 miles total, returning home to our little abode after it was dark.
It was not until about an hour later, when I was on the phone with my mother, that she mentioned something about getting Mikey another stuffed monkey.
"Shit!" I said.
"What's wrong?" my mom asked.
I did not remember unloading George from the stroller. I tore the house apart looking for this little insipid monkey, to no avail. I went outside and walked up and down our block, looking for his smiling pink face. But nothing.
"Mikey," I began, "I think we've lost George."
"George?" he asked, and began digging through his toy box. Nothing.
So I loaded the boy in the car, and off we went in search of George. "Find George," he kept telling me. But George was nowhere to be found.
It was about this time that I realized how much my life has changed. Because prior to having children, I would have thought, "Stuffed monkey. What the hell? Go buy another one. A better one. He'll never know the difference."
But, dear reader, this is what separates parents from those with a life. Because, you see, we recognize, much like our 20-month old child does, that there is no other George. No other monkey, even if he does the mother-fucking splits and speaks in pig Latin, could EVER replace the monkey that we have lost. EVER.
Which led me to make up some tall tale about how George went out for dinner with some friends he hadn't seen in a while and that he would not be back until the next morning. We read all of our Curious George books before bed as if Mikey was willing George's return. Then, after Mikey was asleep and I had related this tale of woe to his father upon his return home from work, I hopped in the car and continued my search for George. I found nothing.
Fortunately, Mikey's toddler mind has put the George debacle aside for now. I have plans to continue the search tonight, again, cruising the streets of Helena (on a Friday night for God's sake,) hoping that some kind soul who has a child of their own, found George and tied him to a fence for his safe return into the waiting arms of my little Mikey.
I was out late last night -- way past my normal 10:30 p.m. bedtime -- cruising the darkened streets of Helena, Montana in search of a short, squat little thing named George.
"What's this?" you, dear reader, ask. "Has Sara re-claimed her once glamorous, man-getting lifestyle -- a lifestyle her married friends would hear about and then sigh wistfully, wishing they too could have the excitement of a revolving bedroom door, a closetful of designer clothes, and an exciting career that took them to exotic locales?"
Ha ha ha, dear reader. I have no energy for such endeavors anymore. No, it was nothing so exciting. Instead, I was out driving around in the middle of the night in my mama-mobile looking for a stuffed monkey that we lost on a long walk. A stuffed monkey that my son very affectionately refers to as "George", after that curious little imp we all know and love.
This tragedy could have been averted. Prior to leaving on our walk, my son was hugging and kissing his stuffed monkey. It was so damn cute that I very carefully tucked George into the Mercedes Benz stroller next to Mikey as his traveling companion for the walk.
And did we walk. About 2.5 - 3 miles total, returning home to our little abode after it was dark.
It was not until about an hour later, when I was on the phone with my mother, that she mentioned something about getting Mikey another stuffed monkey.
"Shit!" I said.
"What's wrong?" my mom asked.
I did not remember unloading George from the stroller. I tore the house apart looking for this little insipid monkey, to no avail. I went outside and walked up and down our block, looking for his smiling pink face. But nothing.
"Mikey," I began, "I think we've lost George."
"George?" he asked, and began digging through his toy box. Nothing.
So I loaded the boy in the car, and off we went in search of George. "Find George," he kept telling me. But George was nowhere to be found.
It was about this time that I realized how much my life has changed. Because prior to having children, I would have thought, "Stuffed monkey. What the hell? Go buy another one. A better one. He'll never know the difference."
But, dear reader, this is what separates parents from those with a life. Because, you see, we recognize, much like our 20-month old child does, that there is no other George. No other monkey, even if he does the mother-fucking splits and speaks in pig Latin, could EVER replace the monkey that we have lost. EVER.
Which led me to make up some tall tale about how George went out for dinner with some friends he hadn't seen in a while and that he would not be back until the next morning. We read all of our Curious George books before bed as if Mikey was willing George's return. Then, after Mikey was asleep and I had related this tale of woe to his father upon his return home from work, I hopped in the car and continued my search for George. I found nothing.
Fortunately, Mikey's toddler mind has put the George debacle aside for now. I have plans to continue the search tonight, again, cruising the streets of Helena (on a Friday night for God's sake,) hoping that some kind soul who has a child of their own, found George and tied him to a fence for his safe return into the waiting arms of my little Mikey.
posted by Sara @ 3:01 PM
