Squishy the dragon . . .

I was reading Sarah's blog this morning and oh, the memories that came flooding back.  When Katie was in kindergarten, the class mascot was a purple on purple dragon made of parachute material, who went by the name of Squishy.   Each and every weekend, he was sent home with a different child and a notebook.  It was the responsibility of his miniature foster parent to include "Squishy" in any and all weekend activities and then have mom/dad commit to writing the thrills involved therein. Our turn was late in coming . . .  it being March already.   I was so excited!  Maybe more so than my kidlet.

My excitement waned when Katie hauled "Squishy" out of a very warn and tattered brown paper bag.  After seven months of being dragged all over the southern half of these United States, the creature had considerably more filth than a couple of dirty knees and unclean finger nails if you get my drift.  The poor thing needed fumigation.

Much to Katie's, horror, the first step on Squishy's home visit was a rock n' roll good time in my washing machine with double rinse and high speed extraction of any remaining particles of whatever noxious-ness had clung to him.

Smugly patting myself on the back, for a job well done and well over due, I opened the washer to see the horror within.  Squishy and most of his contents were on opposite sides of the machine.  Shielding Katie's tender eyes from the debacle,  I moved the contents to the kitchen table, turned on the operating lights, donned a mask,  threaded a needle and went to town.  Soon Squishy was not only clean inside and out but back in glorious good health with a somewhat more sedate ride in the dryer.

But all weekend, Katie was upset that his "scars" would be visible come Monday morning and the tot set would be pointing fingers at her chanting, "Katie killed Squishy,  Katie killed Squishy",  and I admit, that thought was bouncing around in my skull as well.  Had I set my child up for derision that would haunt her for the rest of her life???

As soon as I could, with Squishy ensconced in a smart new paper bag house, I cornered Mrs. Hendren and explained the disaster of the last 48 hours.  She peered into Squishy's abode and pronounced him practically perfect in every way, smiled and asked if we had journaled about the escapade.  My chagrin was apparent when I told her there was no way I was risking being mugged by a class of tearful five year olds over the near death experience of their beloved mascot  . . .  retold in print no less, for all ages to come.  Not I, thankyouverymuch!

But now I need to go back through some 45+ scrapbooks and see if there is photo of the decrepit dragon . . .   and savor some more moments.  Thank you Sarah for that bit of morning sunshine.