I was stocking up on crafting supplies at Michael’s today, when I saw this little nugget of a stuffed monkey. For those of you who aren’t aware, my family has an odd fascination with monkeys and will pretty much fall off the couch laughing when one appears on TV. Seriously, it doesn’t even have to be funny. We’re an awesomely odd bunch.
Anyway, when I saw this little thing I was freakishly excited to bring it home to Maddie. Being that my weirdo-monkey-obsessing blood runs through her veins, there was no doubt in my mind she was going to love it.
Nothing too terrifying, right?
WRONG. The kid HATES the monkey.
I took it out of the bag, and was all, “Here you go, baby! Mama got you something at the store–” and Maddie got this disgusted look on her face and started backing up away from me (and the monkey) slowly, until her back touched the wall. I showed it to her again, “It’s a monkey!”, then as if she felt threatened, she took off running, making a big circle around me and went to sit by her daddy.
That was a few hours ago. I just gave her a bath and put her to bed, and while I was picking up the mess of toys all over the living room I noticed the monkey. It was face down on the floor, pushed far under the couch.
So much for dreams.