Not a Trophy Wife

Hehe! I bet you thought I was going to complain about my gray streaked hair again or my tendency to wear sweats 22 hours a day.

But nope. Not today. Today I've decided to go out on a limb and blog about something else besides me.

Um, you can stop cheering now. It just so happens that my topic of choice is much less interesting than myself.

It's all about trophies.

In my family you either love them or hate them.

My husband and kids love them. I hate them.

• I hate all the space they take up.

• I hate the fact that 90% of them were awarded merely for participation, not for accomplishing anything other than finishing a season.

• I hate that they have magnetic dust collectors in them.

Spencer got his first trophy in the fall of 2000. He was five years old and naturally gifted in bird watching and grass plucking during soccer games. They didn't even play real games or keep score (as it should be for young kids) and he has a gold-plated plastic trophy to remember it by.

If that's all it was it could be good for showing off to his posterity someday. The problem is (if it could be called a problem) is that he's grown to be quite a gifted athlete. He's been playing a sport a couple times each year for the last nine years. Now his shelf and dresser are filled with trophies commemorating each and every sporting season he's ever played and every single Saturday I haven't dusted.


Up until the other day we were in a peaceful coexistence, but then something scarey caught my eye up high on this out-of-the-way shelf.

It was big.
It was gray and fuzzy.
And it was moving to the rhythm of the ceiling fan!!!

Eek--it's a gigantic family of dust bunnies propagating faster than any real life bunnies ever could.

It was time for a mass extermination!

With the shiniest, most warped butter knife I could find I wrenched those nameplates off one by one until there were only a mere five left to see another day. The only ones lucky enough to survive were the special ones he had earned for accomplishing something. Or in the case of the bobble head because it was cute and I like cute things.

With ruthless abandon I dropped them into a bag with a one way ticket to our local consignment store.

And just like that they were gone, gone, gone.

Glen was sentimental.

Spencer wanted me to buy them all back and reglue the nameplates on.

Dust bunnies are dead and gone.
I no longer sneeze when I enter his room. Ahhhh, now that's contentment.

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PS Don't forget to go over and check out my sweet giveaway on my recipe blog!