This plain plane, with child-sized bite marks, chipped paint, broken wheels and missing tail wing is the bain of my existence. This plain plane, the one that seems to have appeared out of no where yet permeates my very existence is the bain of my existence. Yes, this plane is the source of my deep-rooted conflicting misery.
This plain plane likes to find its way in between couch cushions and greet my butt with an evil, sharp surprise.
This plain plane likes to hang out on the kitchen floor, where it’s always in the way. Where I step on it and scream, where I slip on it and fall.
This plain plane likes to scratch and poke and leave red marks.
This plain plane is my daughters most favorite toy. She carries it everywhere. She sleeps with it. She talks to it. She cuddles it.
This plain plane goes with us to school, it goes in the back yard, in the front yard, to the mail box, to the library, in the car, to the grocery store, to the park.
She is fiercely protective of this plane. No one is allowed to touch it, let alone look at it. She wouldn’t even let me take a picture of it.
She cries when she can’t find it. She whines when it’s gone. She screams bloody murder if anyone else touches it.
She loses it 100 times a day.
She is attached to this plain plane, but I still hate it.
As much joy as this plain plane brings my daughter, it brings me just as much misery. I hate having to search for this plane. I hate stepping on this plane. I hate getting scratches from this plane. I hate sitting on this plane. I hate this plane.
But she loves it. It’s her weird, weird, weird attachment lovie. It brings her comfort and joy and happiness.
This plain plane, the one with child-sized bite marks and chipped paint is my daughters most favorite toy and the bain of my existence.
