The dog ate Superbunny.
Not the whole thing. She just ate the face off. You can still see the stitched mouth and nose, but the button eyes are long gone.
It's not the first thing the dog has eaten. She's eaten a few pairs of shoes, some random housewares, a roll of toilet paper and too many dinosaurs to count. But Superbunny hit a nerve.
See, much of motherhood is sacrifice. Not noble sacrifices like laying down your life, but ignoble ones, like not ever sitting down to dinner without someone using the word fart. In fact, one day my kids will thank me for not smacking them every time they purposely worked the word poop into an otherwise clean conversation. Much of my time is spent waiting for somebody or repeating something or reprimanding them for stuff I never though I had to tell them not to do. It's worth it, but it takes a toll on one's psyche after a while. Especially since kids are completely clueless that you might want to be doing something else. Has if I really would have chosen the Barbie movie over Criminal Minds without their input.
But Superbunny was one of those breakthrough moments where my child honestly understood why I did it. My youngest went through a monster stage. We tried all the traditional methods of dealing with the closet monster - leaving the doors open, leaving them closed, searching the closet, giving her a bottle of monster spray - everything short of arming her against a surprise attack. (Although once we did talk about what toys in her room would most hurt the monster most if he did eventually come out of the closet. I was really tired that night.)
One Easter she again came skulking out of her room in tears. I had bought some knee high socks to make sock bunnies for the girls' Easter baskets. I had it all set up to start stitching them that night as a surprise for the morning. Instead of hiding the socks away, I let L sit on my lap while I made Superbunny, a bunny so tough that all the monsters were scared to come near it.
The entire time I stitched, we talked about Superbunny. How Superbunny would fight off anything no matter how scary. How Superbunny was never talked because she was always listening for creepy things. How Superbunny was being made just to protect her, just her - he was her guardian bunny.
And it worked.
Superbunny has had a place on L's bed for two years now. Sometimes shoved between the mattress and the wall. Sometimes tucked tightly under L's arm while she slept, but never far away at night time. The monsters have left, but Superbunny stayed. She understood what I made for her. She could hold that bunny and know that she was loved. She got it.
So when she came running out of the room screaming because Superbunny's face had been chewed off, my heart broke. L cried. I cried. Even my older daughter cried despite the fact she had taken one look at her bunny that Easter, said "Cute," and dived into her candy never looking back.
I repaired Superbunny. Now the poor thing looks like the survivor of a bar fight instead of a brave hero, but L thought she was good as new. Better since she got to pick out the eyes this time. And SB's back tucked underneath my six-year-old's arm, scars and all. Superbunny's not dead, and that giant seam across her face that upsets me now will later be just another story of Superbunny's fearsome power. How even when attacked, even when it looks like a mortally wound, even when we are beaten and ragged and scarred, we can still be stitched up and loved. I hope L gets that, too.
Not the whole thing. She just ate the face off. You can still see the stitched mouth and nose, but the button eyes are long gone.
It's not the first thing the dog has eaten. She's eaten a few pairs of shoes, some random housewares, a roll of toilet paper and too many dinosaurs to count. But Superbunny hit a nerve.
See, much of motherhood is sacrifice. Not noble sacrifices like laying down your life, but ignoble ones, like not ever sitting down to dinner without someone using the word fart. In fact, one day my kids will thank me for not smacking them every time they purposely worked the word poop into an otherwise clean conversation. Much of my time is spent waiting for somebody or repeating something or reprimanding them for stuff I never though I had to tell them not to do. It's worth it, but it takes a toll on one's psyche after a while. Especially since kids are completely clueless that you might want to be doing something else. Has if I really would have chosen the Barbie movie over Criminal Minds without their input.
But Superbunny was one of those breakthrough moments where my child honestly understood why I did it. My youngest went through a monster stage. We tried all the traditional methods of dealing with the closet monster - leaving the doors open, leaving them closed, searching the closet, giving her a bottle of monster spray - everything short of arming her against a surprise attack. (Although once we did talk about what toys in her room would most hurt the monster most if he did eventually come out of the closet. I was really tired that night.)
One Easter she again came skulking out of her room in tears. I had bought some knee high socks to make sock bunnies for the girls' Easter baskets. I had it all set up to start stitching them that night as a surprise for the morning. Instead of hiding the socks away, I let L sit on my lap while I made Superbunny, a bunny so tough that all the monsters were scared to come near it.
The entire time I stitched, we talked about Superbunny. How Superbunny would fight off anything no matter how scary. How Superbunny was never talked because she was always listening for creepy things. How Superbunny was being made just to protect her, just her - he was her guardian bunny.
And it worked.
Superbunny has had a place on L's bed for two years now. Sometimes shoved between the mattress and the wall. Sometimes tucked tightly under L's arm while she slept, but never far away at night time. The monsters have left, but Superbunny stayed. She understood what I made for her. She could hold that bunny and know that she was loved. She got it.
So when she came running out of the room screaming because Superbunny's face had been chewed off, my heart broke. L cried. I cried. Even my older daughter cried despite the fact she had taken one look at her bunny that Easter, said "Cute," and dived into her candy never looking back.
I repaired Superbunny. Now the poor thing looks like the survivor of a bar fight instead of a brave hero, but L thought she was good as new. Better since she got to pick out the eyes this time. And SB's back tucked underneath my six-year-old's arm, scars and all. Superbunny's not dead, and that giant seam across her face that upsets me now will later be just another story of Superbunny's fearsome power. How even when attacked, even when it looks like a mortally wound, even when we are beaten and ragged and scarred, we can still be stitched up and loved. I hope L gets that, too.
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