Meet My Nemesis: Pink Kitty

Meet the bane of my existence and my daughter’s favorite toy: PINK KITTY

Pink. Tiny. Evil.

Because it is tiny and favored and hates my happiness, Pink Kitty is lost several times a day.

In the morning, I am greeted by: Mama, where’s pink kitty?

The rest of my day is filled with variations: Mama, why haven’t you found pink kitty? Mama, I looked everywhere for pink kitty and she’s gooooonnnnnneeeee. Mama, is pink kitty okay? I haven’t seen her in DAAAYYYYYSSSSS. Mama, will you look again for pink kitty? Mama, I can’t sleep without pink kitty.

I have finally met a cat I hate. She does not come when called. She does not meow when lost. My daughter doesn’t mean to lose her, but Pink kitty is wily and mean and fits in seat cushions, pillow cases and random kitschy boxes that I’ve never opened until Pink Kitty appeared. In fact, I cannot think of a place I have NOT found Pink Kitty.


She is second only to my daughter’s blanket, which makes her more important than me. Perhaps it is because Pink Kitty ambled onto the scene as we were beginning the anti-paci crusade. I HAVE NO ENERGY TO FIGHT THE KITTY AFTER WORLD WAR PACIFIER. And it knew it.

I know. I know. Buy some backups. Maybe 6 or 10 or 1500. Well, in order to buy backup Pink Kitty, I have to purchase a $12 Twilight Sparkle on a Scooter set. Yes, this My Little Pony brought a My Little Nemesis.

photo: amazon

Perhaps, I could justify one more set. Isn’t my sanity worth it? But then I stumble over Twilight Sparkle’s scooter helmet at the bottom of the stairs FOR THE LAST WEEK because my daughter does not care about her scooter-ing ability. She can break her brain all she wants as long as Pink Kitty is safe and sound.

I would be purchasing a plastic pink kitty smaller than my pinkie finger for $12 and every morning I would be greeted with my daughter’s sad eyes: Mama, where are my pink kitty sisters? They are missing.

Forget it. Two sneaky bastards are not coming into my home.

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Our School Has A Dads Night Which Makes Our Kids Cry

My husband has a pretty hard time with our school’s Dads Night. And by “hard,” I mean “hilarious to me” but also “HUGS SCOTT.”

Dads Night is the students’ opportunity to take their fathers to school in the evening to show off their classroom and favorite activities. It sounds so sweet and innocuous.

The first year, E won’t let Scott into the classroom. Yup, all the other dads are sitting down with their sons and daughters working and oohing and aahing. My son gets to the door, turns to Scott and says: Bye, Dada.

Scott: Tonight, I get to go in with you!

E: No.

Scott: But see look at all the other dads in the room. Remember? IT’S DADS NIGHT! {insert jazz hands} {probably}

E {over his shoulder while running to the other side of the room}: Nope.

Scott sidles in anyway. E notices and begins to cry.

Scott spends the rest of the hour standing by the classroom door. E occasionally waves.

This year, E is older and wiser, but we have a new snafu. His sister also has Dads Night that evening. Theirs are at the same school but at same time so we prep them in advance that they will each get 30 minutes in their classroom. Scott decides N’s room will be first because we may never get E to leave and N might insist on staying as well because she has the obsessed-with-my-older-sibling thing going on to the point that she asked to invite all E’s friends to her birthday party instead of her own.

Everyone is on board, excited and off they go.

My phone rings 20 minutes later.

Scott: Guess who is crying in the car?

Me: Um…

Scott: Did you guess EVERYONE?


Me: What? Why is everyone crying?

Scott: That’s a good question. Why are we crying again?


Scott: I think it went something like N cried about coming back to school, E threatened her with expulsion from the family if she didn’t go to Dads Night and she respond by yelling: I’M NOT ON YOUR TEAM E. Then E started crying.


N: I’m still crying.

Me: Happy Dads Night!

Scott: Thanks.

Scott eventually got into the classroom with not-crying kids. And everyone went home with a stomach virus.

Moms Night is going to rock. Seriously, because I can only go up from here.

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