Stuffed Doggy Style

After a lot of work and more than a few deep papercuts, I am proud to say that I am no longer the owner of Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots, The Wobbler, four sets of stacking blocks, a Spiderman board game, and dozens of other random toys that my kids have outgrown, or I am sick of looking at, or both. What I do still have possession of, though, is too many stuffed animals to count.

The actual number is probably an underestimate, due to the fact that they are (ready for this?), shockingly enough, organized. Zoe has a gigantic plastic box under her bed that is full of Beanie Babies, and there is a wooden bin for the bigger animals, which are sorted into categories like aquatic creatures, African Sahara, farm friends/ eventually-headed-to-the-butcher-shop, Disney characters, and domestic pets.

I know that I will have to get rid of these creatures at some point, but the truth is that since they are usually put away and she only gets a few out at a time, I kind of like them. They encourage her to be creative (like when she was trying to potty train the pig), serve as a great stand-in when she is playing doctor and I am sick of being poked and stabbed with her plastic syringe, and since none of them are the crappily constructed styrofoam-filled carnival animals, they're all kind of cute.

Occasionally, things get out of hand and it seems like I can't take three steps without tripping over a giraffe or dolphin. This is when I question whether my organizational system is failing, or if maybe the animals are reproducing.

Yeah, that's what I thought, too.