When my 4-year-old son Declan was just a few months old, we
had brunch with some family friends. Their son was whining for his stuffed
rabbit, which he had left in the car. "[Whatever stuffed rabbit's name
was] doesn't want to come out of the car," my friend explained to her son.
"He's tired and just wants to rest." The kid didn't buy it, and who
can blame him? He was a child, not an idiot. 
That's why I try not to lie to my kids. And that's why I
can't throw out any of the annoying books my kids love. Even if, like
"Sheep in a Shop," the far inferior sequel to "Sheep in a
Jeep," the meter is poor, the plot iffy, and the moral downright
questionable (the sheep trade their wool for some birthday presents). I can't
throw it away. I can't simply "misplace" it. Because I can't say,
"'Snuggle Puppy'? Haven't seen it," if I know it's buried under
leftover mac-n-cheese in the kitchen garbage can. I know I can't do this
because I've tried, and I suck at it.
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