The pressure of taking home the class stuffed animal can only be described as terrifying. Fuck! It means you have to do something with your child that weekend. The expectation? About five A4 pages in the diary, complete with pictures and short sentences. So now, more things are added to the mental to-do list:
- Check if you have photographic paper for the printer
- Does it have ink?
- Remember which device is actually attached to the printer via Bluetooth
The relief when the printer whirrs into life at the recognition of an instruction can bring a tear to my eye. Couldn’t we just take a picture of Poppy at the park, at my mum’s, and then in front of the TV? Nope. This Poppy is a bougie bitch.
I didn’t just get Poppy for the weekend. I got her for the whole of the two-week half-term. Poppy was a small brown and black dog.
Mum guilt drove me to take that little fucking Poppy dog everywhere all half-term. My phone was full of Poppy in various poses, in different backgrounds. The cinema. The fair. A couple of trips on a train into London. Even a short break to Europe. I was fucking exhausted — I needed Poppy and the diary out of my house.
The night before school finally came round, we started packing the school bags… and we couldn’t find Poppy. We tore the house down strip by strip. I went through my photo roll on my phone to see where we’d last photographed her. Last picture: at the fair. I got in my car and drove back to the now-abandoned fair, combing the bushes with my phone torch.
This was my worst-case scenario. I already had the title disorganised (disengaged) mum at the school. I didn’t need this. My house was wrecked. My daughters sat in chaos with tear-stained faces. I told my husband — who was watching TV. He turned to my daughter and said, “I told you to look after it.” A fresh tear trickled down her face. My son, who absorbs everything, had a wide, panicked look in his eyes.
Monday morning, I had to drop my daughter at school sans Poppy. It was fine — I shoved her through the gates just as the bell went. I armed her with her picture diary and added a very apologetic note to the teacher.
Then came pick-up. I waited in the car until the bell rang, pretending to take a call. The plan was grab and leave. Of course, her class was let out late. I hadn’t planned for this.
Okay, okay, I thought. Pretend I’m still on the phone. Thank God the door’s opening.
WHERE THE FUCK IS MY CHILD?
I went to ask the teacher, thinking — I did drop her this morning, didn’t I? Jesus. She’s not still in the car? The teacher explained she’d forgotten her blazer and had gone back to get it. Okay, okay. Keep it breezy.
Then one of the mums came up behind me. Oh no. It’s Full-on Invested Mum, parent to one. She loudly exclaimed that her daughter had told her we’d lost Poppy. The teacher arrived back with my daughter in tow.
The teacher chimed in:
“Yes, unfortunately Poppy has been lost. The replacement you’ve suggested won’t be adequate. It needs to be a certain size and have health and safety standards we have to follow.”
Yes, I had spent Sunday night scrolling Amazon for a replacement. I found a beige and white dog, about the same size as Poppy. I even used my workday lunch break to deliver it to the school reception.
The teacher carried on:
“The school will purchase another one and it will be included on your invoice.”
Fuck! Was I going to have to pay hundreds for a Steiff replacement?
“The girls, as you can understand, are very upset. We’ve had Poppy for years.”
Fuck my life. I apologised again and said, of course, include it on the invoice. Then I joked: “If it makes you feel better, Poppy had a full, happy, and active last two weeks — as documented in the diary.”
No one found it funny.
Then Invested Mum pipes up:
“I do hope we get a replacement before the girls’ next break. My daughter was rather looking forward to taking Poppy to the Maldives. I’d booked it especially!”
I looked at her and said, “Poppy would have loved the Maldives.”
As I thought: What? You can fucking book Poppy? I could have selected a weekend?!
I left the school gates with my daughter and her blazer in tow. Sat in the car and took a breath.
My husband didn’t understand the fuss. He said it was just a stuffed toy.
Wait until he sees the invoice. I should add a margin for emotional reparations.
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