On Sunday, Mallory said to me, “I want to get a box and put stuff in it that I don’t want and give it to some other people.” Coincidentally, I had just read about a US soldier who was collecting stuffed animals to pass out to children in Iraq, so I found a box and we started filling it up. Because if there’s one thing we have too much of, it’s stuffed animals. (There is something way off, grammatically, about that sentence, but you get the idea.)
Mallory was not at all discriminatory about which stuffies she flung into the box. “Hold on,” I said. “You don’t have to give away any that are really special to you.” From that point on, she very earnestly said, “Well, this one isn’t special!” of each one before she consigned it to the pile.
It was on the tip of my tongue to protest. Not special? The ducky I bought when I found out I was pregnant? The doggie I bought for her when she had her first ear infection? The floppy bunny that sat in the corner of her crib? The bear with “2001 Baby” embroidered on its foot? The half-dozen Beanie Babies given to her and Phoebe by my grandmother? Of course those were special! Except they were special to me, not to her – she’s never been had a particular “lovey,” she’s equal-opportunity about which toy she sleeps with or hauls around throughout the day. (Phoebe, on the other hand, was watching us suspiciously while clutching tightly to her fuzzy Elmo. Not to worry, no Sesame Street stuffies made the cut.)
So now I have a huge box of bears and frogs and dogs and ducks and bunnies to send to Iraq. And I hope that each one becomes very special to a child over there.
Mallory was not at all discriminatory about which stuffies she flung into the box. “Hold on,” I said. “You don’t have to give away any that are really special to you.” From that point on, she very earnestly said, “Well, this one isn’t special!” of each one before she consigned it to the pile.
It was on the tip of my tongue to protest. Not special? The ducky I bought when I found out I was pregnant? The doggie I bought for her when she had her first ear infection? The floppy bunny that sat in the corner of her crib? The bear with “2001 Baby” embroidered on its foot? The half-dozen Beanie Babies given to her and Phoebe by my grandmother? Of course those were special! Except they were special to me, not to her – she’s never been had a particular “lovey,” she’s equal-opportunity about which toy she sleeps with or hauls around throughout the day. (Phoebe, on the other hand, was watching us suspiciously while clutching tightly to her fuzzy Elmo. Not to worry, no Sesame Street stuffies made the cut.)
So now I have a huge box of bears and frogs and dogs and ducks and bunnies to send to Iraq. And I hope that each one becomes very special to a child over there.
Comments
I love that Phoebe held on tight to her Elmo.
aimee
Holly