As a kidlet, going to grandma's house meant playing with grandma's toys. Good toys. Grandma Sally had the exquisite Barbie house from my mom's childhood, vintage Barbie clothes, and the Barbies to go with them. Midge was my favorite, for I've never really been into blonds.
Grandma's toys weren't toys you could bring home. They were for loving and leaving and Grandma's.
What was true for me has been true for my dogter. The chew and squeak toys at Grandma's place belong to Uncle Gus, grandma's Westie, and they're for loving and leaving at his place.
Regarding one toy in particular, that leaving-behind bit has been especially sad for the Soph. My dog's favorite of Uncle Gus' possessions is his squeaky red, white and blue barbel. It fits so nicely in her little Yorkie mouth.
When I saw her affinity for the thing, I started keeping an eye out for something similar. It took three years of periodically checking the dog toy ailes at Target and Petsmart, but finally, two weeks ago, I discovered a small, squeaky barbel.
Once it was home and in her teeny mouth, my pup got right to work with her toy routine.
Most of my kid's toys are squeaky, stuffed sea creatures, and whenever she get's handed a new one, she lays down and goes at the eyes. Once she's eaten off the eyes, she's ready to get to work on disarming the squeaker. No matter that the squeaky barbel didn't have eyes; she instead located a little stopper at one end and gnawed it to oblivion instead. The squeaker was next, and she conquered it this morning.
Though the toy is still good for fetch, without eyes and a squeaker it's lost most of its appeal. Unlike the toys at grandma's. Especially that red, white and blue barbel that I can't, for the life of me, locate to purchase.
Today, however, finding that particular plaything became unnecessary. For, amongst the bills and Christmas cards, in today's mail delivery there was a package addressed to Sophie Romo.
I really have the coolest mom, for not only was the gift to my dogter timely and thoughtful, but it comes the day after my mailbox produced a package addressed to me in her familiar handwriting. Inside: Soft black gloves subtly embroidered with a Mickey head, a souvenir from her recent trip to Disneyland. Those too were timely, for yesterday morning, as I slipped on my black leather gloves, I made a mental note to go get myself some soft, casual gloves more appropriate for things not-work, like going to the grocery store, yoga, and the mailbox.
No need. No need. My Hen handled it for me.