Who's sleeping with my daughter?

On one of the 40,000 trips to Guatemala City that I took while waiting for an underpaid clerk to sign a piece of paper saying I could bring my daughter home, I popped into a pharmacy to buy some formula. On the way out, I spotted a curly-furred brown Teddy Bear with a plaid ribbon around its neck and the softest, squishiest body ever.

I paid 80 Quetzales for it, about $12, and snuggled it next to the Tyrant that night when I put her to sleep.

That was nearly three years ago, and Teddy remains with us. It might be more accurate to say that Teddy’s remains are still with us. She – and the Tyrant has made it clear that Teddy is a she – she looks like a playroom war veteran, with pieces of tape stuck to her fur, the tattered ribbon hanging in shreds, and a half-eaten tag attached to her booty. Once the Tyrant covered an imaginary ouchie on Teddy’s belly with a waterproof Band-Aid, and I accidentally cut a hole in her belly while trying to remove it. That led to very successful involuntary gastric bypass surgery, and Teddy is not nearly as squishy as she once was.

Teddy has been laundered many, many times, but not even OxyClean can cover her distinct odor, a musky combination of pee, sour milk, vomit and Cheetos. And dog. And drool. It’s revolting, but in a sweet, reassuring sort of way.

Teddy is a very versatile toy. She can snuggle, of course, but she can also be cooked in a pot, used to play catch with the dog, swung like a club at marauders, and kidnapped by enemies. I have often thought that if Teddy could talk she would beg me to put her out of her misery. But there have been good times, too. Teddy has picked blueberries, flown on a plane, and ridden a bike.
She even has a couple of friends/relatives named Teddy’s Mama and Teddy’s Dada.

But what a gift she is, worth more to the Tyrant than her tutu and lipstick combined. During last summer’s Vacation Odyssey, we were in a Knoxville, Tennessee hotel room ready to go to sleep when we realized Teddy was missing. As the Tyrant wailed, I convinced Hot Firefighter Husband that we had left Teddy in the organic vegetarian pizza parlor where we’d eaten dinner, and sent him off to find her. No luck. But on the way home he passed the ice cream shop where we’d had dessert, and on a whim, as they were hanging up the CLOSED sign, he knocked. There was Teddy, next to the vanilla.

Teddy has also been left at school, at Starbucks and at the playground. She has been “misplaced” in the oven, the pots and pans cabinet, behind the bed and under the bathroom sink. Each time she’s lost, I’m unable to bring my heart rate down until we find her – partly out of sentimentality, and partly because I’m terrified of trying to make my daughter function in a Teddy-less world.

The other two children have their inanimate crutches as well, but they’re past the age at which I worry that losing their beloveds will ruin their lives. The Diva has Cordurory, who looks as though she’s been rode hard and put up wet, and the Pterodactyl has Blue Puppy, Blankie and Fuzzy Pillow. (Fuzzy Pillow is just a bed pillow covered with a blue jersey pillow case, but about six months ago it apparently developed a personality.)

When I was little, I had an enormous yellow bear I called Cindy. I still have him. His eyes have been scratched out and the kids and Hot Firefighter Husband are afraid of him.

But having Cindy reminds me of how special it is to have such a reliable source of comfort. When the Tyrant’s throwing a tantrum because I won’t let her use the computer cable as a whip, nothing brings her solace like a good Teddy hug. Ten years from now, when she’s screeching at me because I won’t let her attend a boy-girl slumber party, comforting her won’t be nearly as simple. And I’ll miss that.