Teddy
My teddy bear's name was Teddy. He was soft and dark brown, with a lighter tan circle around his nose and two threads making up a mouth that pointed slightly down, like he was a little upset about something. I took him everywhere. He was the perfect size to fit right under my chin when I slept.
I think the hospital gave him to me when my brother Matt was born, but that could be a detail I've confused in my head. I would have only been 3 years old. Likely he filled the void left when my dad threw away my beloved, raggedy blankie and told me I'd lost it. Still hurts, Dad. Still hurts.
When my mom enrolled me in fire safety classes, I somehow got the notion that fires were inevitable and everybody had to have their house burn down at some point in their lives. It was going to happen to me and it was going to happen between 1 and 4 am, the time when my teacher said most fires happen. So I pulled together my most treasured items into a pile—my Little House on the Prairie books, my sparkly unicorn sticker, and Teddy, and set them in the garage in a prime location by the door, easy to grab as I was running for my life. Then for nights and nights I laid awake, staring at the clock in my room and keeping my ears tuned for the sound of flames, of the smoke detector, of people yelling. Only when 4 am came would I heave a big sigh of relief and really go to sleep.
I might have been a bit of an anxious kid.
As children we all have these little items we latch on to, these small comforts we carry around with us, drag on the floor, cover with our tears and snot. They go with us to sleepovers, to summer camp, to Grandma's house, a physical reminder of home and our moms and the fact that we have a place where we're loved and safe. Material objects get a bad rap sometimes—"Don't buy things, buy experiences." "Things won't make you happy." Agree, but disagree, too. There's no need to spend a lot of money on stuff. But when things are attached to experiences, to emotions, to love, then they're not really a physical thing anymore at all.
I lost Teddy at some point in middle school. I remember packing him for a trip with my best friend Katie, but when her dad opened up the truck once we'd gotten to the cabin, he was nowhere to be found. It's hard to describe that sense of loss—it's not just losing a stuffed animal, it's losing home and childhood and safety, somehow. It broke my heart. I was really too old to be thinking this way, but I was consumed with the idea that I'd abandoned Teddy, that I'd failed him, that he was lying in the dirt on some road somewhere, alone forever. The idea still makes me feel sad.
A few times over the years I've tried to find the same kind of teddy bear online. I think I remember a Gund tag, but none of the Gund bears seem quite right. This one seems the closest, though I'm still not sure. Somewhere at home there's a photo of my cousin Kendall holding Teddy over her head—I need to find it to know for sure what he looked like in real life as opposed to what he seems like in my head. It's probably melodramatic, but part of me feels like if I could find the right teddy bear I could get Teddy back again and some kind of hole would be filled—though in reality it probably would turn out to be a disappointment. You can't bring your childhood back. And you wouldn't really want to, even if it would be nice to take a couple hours out from having to worry about the world imploding or how you should be transferring your old 401k.
When I went to college and my dog Max had just died, my grandma gave me a stuffed white dog. I call him "Puppy." I am a master at naming stuffed animals. I was 17, but it was still a comfort in those days where I felt like I'd lost home again, in a new city in a new state, with the loss of Max hurting and feeling alone on a campus of strangers. At 33 I still have that dog, and I still find it easier to sleep with him under my chin—though I try to tell myself it's habit and a sleep position thing, not a sentimental attachment. Lies.
I think the hospital gave him to me when my brother Matt was born, but that could be a detail I've confused in my head. I would have only been 3 years old. Likely he filled the void left when my dad threw away my beloved, raggedy blankie and told me I'd lost it. Still hurts, Dad. Still hurts.
When my mom enrolled me in fire safety classes, I somehow got the notion that fires were inevitable and everybody had to have their house burn down at some point in their lives. It was going to happen to me and it was going to happen between 1 and 4 am, the time when my teacher said most fires happen. So I pulled together my most treasured items into a pile—my Little House on the Prairie books, my sparkly unicorn sticker, and Teddy, and set them in the garage in a prime location by the door, easy to grab as I was running for my life. Then for nights and nights I laid awake, staring at the clock in my room and keeping my ears tuned for the sound of flames, of the smoke detector, of people yelling. Only when 4 am came would I heave a big sigh of relief and really go to sleep.
I might have been a bit of an anxious kid.
As children we all have these little items we latch on to, these small comforts we carry around with us, drag on the floor, cover with our tears and snot. They go with us to sleepovers, to summer camp, to Grandma's house, a physical reminder of home and our moms and the fact that we have a place where we're loved and safe. Material objects get a bad rap sometimes—"Don't buy things, buy experiences." "Things won't make you happy." Agree, but disagree, too. There's no need to spend a lot of money on stuff. But when things are attached to experiences, to emotions, to love, then they're not really a physical thing anymore at all.
I lost Teddy at some point in middle school. I remember packing him for a trip with my best friend Katie, but when her dad opened up the truck once we'd gotten to the cabin, he was nowhere to be found. It's hard to describe that sense of loss—it's not just losing a stuffed animal, it's losing home and childhood and safety, somehow. It broke my heart. I was really too old to be thinking this way, but I was consumed with the idea that I'd abandoned Teddy, that I'd failed him, that he was lying in the dirt on some road somewhere, alone forever. The idea still makes me feel sad.
A few times over the years I've tried to find the same kind of teddy bear online. I think I remember a Gund tag, but none of the Gund bears seem quite right. This one seems the closest, though I'm still not sure. Somewhere at home there's a photo of my cousin Kendall holding Teddy over her head—I need to find it to know for sure what he looked like in real life as opposed to what he seems like in my head. It's probably melodramatic, but part of me feels like if I could find the right teddy bear I could get Teddy back again and some kind of hole would be filled—though in reality it probably would turn out to be a disappointment. You can't bring your childhood back. And you wouldn't really want to, even if it would be nice to take a couple hours out from having to worry about the world imploding or how you should be transferring your old 401k.
When I went to college and my dog Max had just died, my grandma gave me a stuffed white dog. I call him "Puppy." I am a master at naming stuffed animals. I was 17, but it was still a comfort in those days where I felt like I'd lost home again, in a new city in a new state, with the loss of Max hurting and feeling alone on a campus of strangers. At 33 I still have that dog, and I still find it easier to sleep with him under my chin—though I try to tell myself it's habit and a sleep position thing, not a sentimental attachment. Lies.