Leave Mr. Snuffles at Home
Saturday afternoon, Mom and I returned home with bags loaded with sunscreen, Bug-Me-Not, a flashlight, a ton of batteries, and every hair product that came in travel size.
As I laid my camp things on my bed to label them, Mom came in holding a turquoise leather-bound journal with silver-sequined dragonflies. She grinned and handed it to me. “I noticed you kept picking this up when we were at Murphy’s Attic, so I bought it when you weren’t looking.”
I took it from her. “Cool. Thanks.”
“You can use it to express your feelings. It will help you process things about separation anxiety or worries about middle school.”
Oh brother.
Processing emotions was a mega-big deal to Mom. Last week, she sat Jireh, Elenna, and me down for what she called a “here and now” to tell us it was healthy and normal to openly express our emotions. She’d overheard a small part of a conversation we’d had in the backyard. I’d said that “bottled” was the way to go, and they had both agreed. After the therapy session she put us through about how we shouldn’t keep our feelings bottled up, she concluded with her usual lecture on hormones. I explained we were simply talking about canned sodas versus bottled sodas and which tasted better.
How awkward was that?
I touched one of the dragonflies on the cover of the journal, wondering how it would hold up shoved into my suitcase. “Do you think I should I take it to camp?”
“Absolutely!”
We were about to start packing when Dad hollered something from the kitchen about the dishwasher spewing soap.
Mom rushed out the door.
As I plopped my suitcase on the bed and flipped it open, I glanced at the clock on my desk. If I hurried, I’d have plenty of time before dinner and after packing to make it down to Peghiny’s Ice Cream Parlor.
I’d never packed for camp before, and the more items I placed into my suitcase, the faster my heart pounded. I’d been to sleepovers millions of times, but this was completely different.
I glanced at Mr. Snuffles, who was on my bed. I named him Mr. Snuffles after my favorite Sesame Street character, Mr. Snuffleupagus. He was a small, gray elephant who wore a T-shirt that said Someone in Colorado Loves Me. In his trunk, he held a red rose. My grandpa had given him to me for my third birthday, and he’d quickly become a favorite. After Grandpa died two years ago, I had treasured Mr. Snuffles even more.
Unfortunately, he no longer looked like a treasure.
He was dingy—even for a gray elephant. His head flopped to one side because no stuffing was left in his neck. Several places on his body were so worn that wisps of stuffing poked out. His T-shirt was ragged and sported spaghetti sauce stains from when I used to set him next to me at the dinner table. His eyes didn’t even match. One of them had fallen off a long time ago, and Mom had sewed on a button to replace it—only it didn’t look like the other eye at all.
Even though I loved him, he wasn’t getting into my suitcase. I’d rather eat a full pan of Mom’s meatloaf (which was gross) than be caught with Mr. Snuffles at camp.
He sat there, looking at me. His mismatched eyes seemed to be pleading, begging to come with me.
“I am not bringing you,” I told him. “Everyone will think I’m a baby.”
I tossed him onto my beanbag chair and threw a pillow over him. I didn’t need a guilt trip from Mr. Snuffles.
Ten minutes later, I set my packed suitcase and sleeping bag next to my dresser.
Clothes—check.
Shower junk and hair-taming goops and gels—check.
No babyish stuffed animals—check.
Mom poked her head into my room. A blob of suds rested on the top of her head like a small tiara. “Dishwasher’s on the fritz. The kitchen floor is covered in soap! Gonna grab more towels but wanted to check—” She stopped and raised an eyebrow at the sight of the packed suitcase.
“You seemed pretty busy, what with the dishwasher spewing bubbles, so I figured I’d go ahead and pack.” I plopped into my beanbag chair (sitting on Mr. Snuffles), clasped my hands behind my head, and crossed my ankles. “It’s all good. I used the list—and if I forgot anything, y’all can just turn the cruise ship around and bring it to me.”
She smirked. “Ha-ha.”
“Can I bike down to the ice cream parlor real quick? I want to say good-bye to Mrs. Peghiny.”
Dad hollered again, and Mom glanced down the hall. “Be back in time for dinner—and don’t fill up on a lot of ice cream.”
• • •
After dinner that night, I pulled the new journal from my suitcase. I’d never had one before and I wasn’t sure how to start “expressing myself.”
Dear Diary,
Dear Journal,
Dear Paper Shrink,
In the end, I decided to just stick with the date and time.
Saturday, June 12
8:56 p.m.
Mom got me this journal to “process feelings.” I think she feels guilty for sending me off to camp.
Mom and Dad are making me go to Camp Minnehaha for two weeks while they go on a cruise. I am not about to let their Arctic adventure ruin my summer though.
I came up with a NEW plan!
PLAN B.
This afternoon, I told Mrs. Peghiny about the cake decorating class at Camp Minnehaha. I suggested she could pay me to decorate her cupcakes—’cause I would be like a REAL cake decorator after camp. It took a little bit of convincing, but in the end, she said that if I took the class and did well, she’d try me out as her cupcake decorator! I bet I could even compete on Baker’s Dozen after going to camp!
Plus, it will be way better than babysitting, duh!
Speaking of fun, Mom and Dad think the camp will be fun…which is what adults always say when they actually have no idea what’s going to happen.
I’ve hidden Mr. Snuffles—I’ll really miss him, but I can’t bring him. Because the only thing worse than MISSING Mr. Snuffles would be the way all the kids would laugh at me if they saw him!