Always worth the torture

To escape the stacks of boxes at our apartment, I traveled to Gilbert to help out with toy donating at Catilin & Audra Beth's house on Sunday. After three hours I managed to convince them to donate three garbage bags of Littlest Pet Shops, Polly Pockets, Barbies, Bratz junk, miscellaneous nick nacks, thingamabogs, and a Whack-a-Mole that I've been giving the stink eye to since they got it last year. I can't wait for the days when I pay them to come over & convince my kids to get rid of the toys they no longer play with but continue to clog every free surface in the house. Torture. Pure torture.

That reminds me, I have a new interrogation plan for terrorists. Toy-Boarding. Instead of the feeling of "drowning" in water, we can lay them down and pour teeny tiny, rubber, Polly Pocket shoes on their face. Have you seen these shoes? They're the size of a pencil earser. Oh, and if they didn't want to talk or confess or whatever, we could make them pair the shoes up by style, heel-size, and color. I should write a letter. Back to the purpose of the post . . .

In between questions like "Caitlin, which of your three Littlest Pet Shop Doctor's Offices do you want to keep?" and "No, I don't think Goodwill wants the furry broken car seat out of the Bratz Hummer we gave away six months ago.", I taught Caitlin how to write a capital cursive "I". She's learning cursive at school but, as of Sunday, she lacks a few letters in her repertoire. After a few tries and holding in an "I don't even know why they teach kids cursive anymore" comment, I finally remembered how to write one myself.

Here was my reward:

This must be why they still teach cursive in school. Tear.