By GARRET LEIVA
Community editor
---- — The messy bedroom — it's part of a kid's DNA, like "Are we there yet?" whines and PB&J sandwiches.
No exception to the rule, our daughter's room is a rabid menagerie of stuffed animals. Lions, tigers and, oh my, more bears than a city dump in Alaska; her toy box runneth over.
Unfortunately, spay or neuter can't control the polyfoam-filled pet population.
Christmas, birthdays and well-meaning relatives contribute to the stuffed animal problem. Even before our daughter was born her bedroom was filled with cute cats, adorable dogs and precious pandas. These cuddly critters now see less light of day than a convicted serial killer as they do time in the box.
However, there are a lucky few that belong to an inner circle known as The Friends.
This select group resides up on the bed, not in a box. The Friends look down on the toy box others much like the pigs in "Animal Farm." I guess some stuffed animals are more equal than others.
Some furballs fall in and out of Friends favor. They might get to ride in the minivan for a day or two. They could even enjoy a weekend getaway to the grandparents. However, their final fate is the bottom of the toy box; fighting for elbowroom with Mr. Potato Head and Always Half-Naked Barbie.
The Learning Channel airs a TV show, "Hoarding: Buried Alive" that goes inside the homes and minds of extreme hoarders. We seem about two pink poodles shy from a season two casting call. In fact, this week we issued a parental threat to thin the herd.
Unfortunately it's hard to donate even gently-loved stuffed animals. It looks like garage sale time or Dad digging a not-so-shallow grave by flashlight in the backyard.
Sadly, I can relate to an overstuffed animal quandary. A 40-year-old man shouldn't admit this, but I'm a recovered critter collector. My childhood was filled with stuffed creatures great and small. Every night my bed was packed with a contingent capable of sinking Noah's ark.
Somewhere in our basement is a storage box full of my inner circle: Floppy-head dog, a clown of freaky mental anguish proportions and dirty old Winnie the Pooh.
Pooh still bears childhood scars from being dragged around the garage floor.
While he was sent to the dry cleaners, Winnie remained in a perpetual state of dirtiness; like me through third grade.
I try to remember my own hoard when I step on an Ugly Doll at midnight in an unlit hallway.
I also realize that all too soon our daughter will outgrow her Friends; the ones that can't talk up bellybutton rings and down parents.
However, I suspect her bedroom will remain a rabid menagerie — or just a plain mess.
