Life has become a never-ending search for lost toys.
The Frog is still missing two parts, of course. Black-and-white cow has not yet emerged from that deadly lawnmower accident. Yellow Chick disappeared on the bus. The little green ball he had for all of 10 seconds is still stuck between the tiles on our patio.
And now his favorite plastic giraffe has drown at the bottom of a storm drain.
(He seems not to have noticed that two of his Dinosaur Train toys went missing a few weeks ago, or that we never recovered the stuffed dog he threw out the school bus window. And I'm sure as hell not going to be the one to remind him.)
The giraffe went down the storm drain moments after I told him not to drop his toys there. Aside from the predictable crying that ensued, Ryan hatched a couple of plans for how we could rescue the giraffe. His first idea (my favorite) involved scissors and a diving mask. Eventually he decided a butterfly net would be the tool of choice.
Ryan refuses to accept that all these toys are gone forever. Every day for the last few weeks has been filled with episodes of anguished mourning for his lost plastic friends, and no amount of rational explanation on my part can help.