For the past two years, Story has woken up as a different animal every day. Each morning, I must drape part of myself over her covered form to pretend I am sitting on an egg. She twitches just slightly, but this is just her preparing to hatch. Apparently hatching from an egg is a rather drawn-out process. After some more twitching and wriggling, a hand or foot appears, and as the mama, I have to wait patiently as my little one struggles to release herself from the clutches of the eggshell.
Finally, she emerges, and I ooh and ahh over my most precious offspring. (Story whispers what creature she is for the day.) Hugs, kisses, and general celebration ensue for a respectable period of time, and then I must growl and snap at the zookeeper in order to escape the zoo with my baby.
Side note: For those of you wondering, yes, Story and I have had the conversation about which types of babies hatch from eggs and which do not. However, after having gone through what I’m guessing is every single type of hatchling, Story got bored and threw “magic mammals” into the mix—those capable of hatching from an egg.
This backstory is important for you to understand how seriously Story considers these transformations. She is whatever creature she has chosen for the day for a good period of time, whether at home, school, the grocery store, church, wherever. She once was placed in timeout because she refused to follow the teacher’s instruction to sit on her pockets. You see, snails don’t have pockets.
One day Story scratched at the back door. She had been playing outside as a troodon, I believe, this time. She let me know in troodon-speak that she was ready to come back inside because she had gone pee outside. Was she just playing, or had she really done her business outdoors for all the neighbors to see? I was afraid to ask. I didn’t have to; her smile told me the answer.
She gathered plastic food and “supplies” and headed back outdoors to explore the jungle. I watched her dart from bush to tree all over the yard, stopping occasionally to scavenge while keeping a sharp eye out for predators and making horrendous noises. From the window, I marveled at both her imagination and energy level. After a while, she scratched at the back door again. I opened the door for her and she proudly exclaimed, “I pooped outside!”
No, she didn’t. I stood my ground in disbelief. “No, you didn’t.”
“Oh yes I did! Troodons potty outside.” And I knew she did.
I quickly looked around. Had anyone witnessed this? Would Child Protective Services be knocking at my door? I ushered Story inside.
Story and I had a long discussion about the rules of the house for all creatures, whether in Story form or not. I still haven’t been able to bring myself to poop-scoop my daughter’s mess from the backyard. Something within me is abhorrently against it. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
Lessons learned: When your daughter is an animal, DO NOT let her in the backyard without close, attached-at-the-hip supervision; be okay with calling your toilet the litterbox; and always expect the unexpected, no matter how disgusting.