Stuffed Up
Written By Jacquelyn Mitchard
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When it comes to plush toys, many are bought. But few are chosen.
Over time, they became the equivalent of zucchini in August, the kind of gift left on the porch under cover of darkness. They were given to commemorate the arrival of our first child — as well as our second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh. They were presented on birthdays or holidays, won at fairs or raffes, begged for at tag sales and tourist traps.
It wasn't long until the bears, tigers, snakes, lambs, wolves, flamingos, dinosaurs, unicorns, musk oxen, pandas, and cheetahs needed their own home addition. Either that or we'd have to donate them to friends, the Salvation Army, passing strangers with strollers.
How has it come to this? Grandparents and godparents have been the worst perps. But I'm guilty too. I mean, refusing your kid a cuddly bunny makes you feel as though you lack the proper set of adoration genes. So I cave. Then I cave again. Then I buy some really cute fruit bats for the cave. It gets absurd; how many compassionate mammals, after all, can a child love extravagantly?
In our family, the only things the kids have more of than stuffed animals are dust mites.
Can you blame me for wanting to thin the herd once in a while? Can you imagine what happens when I try? Suddenly my children are like the Little Prince, responsible for all they have tamed on Asteroid B612 — from a three-legged pony to a juice-matted owl. Even the suggestion of parting with anything they've owned elevates the object from forgotten shelf-occupant to sacred relic.
When our oldest son, Rob, was 5, we floated the idea that his dragon, Goblin — exsanguinated of its cotton stuffng, gutted of its music box, and missing its tail — be retired. Rob was resourceful enough to put it in a plastic bag and bury it in the sandbox until the threat passed. In our house, such cross-species bonds have great longevity. Martin, a college freshman, still has an ancient Pooh inherited from my brother. Pooh got in the crossfire of a karate contest between Martin and brother Dan when they were 3 and 6, respectively, and now wears a permanent tourniquet. Silly old bear.
Atticus and Will, at 4 and not quite 2, sort of sleep around with various creatures. They have yet to commit. Will does tote along Ed, though, a particularly grim pig so unnervingly itchy to the touch that he seems to have been molded from a bale of hay. Atticus currently favors a varmint given him by Aunt Jane — not quite a sloth, not quite a squirrel. The Thing, we call it. Mia, 8, is beholden to a fuzzy bear named Blueberry with a fragile plaster face, who is a facsimile replacement of Strawberry, who was given a fatal second-story shove from Will.
You've noticed a pattern here. No matter how plush their surroundings, kids tend to attach to one stuffed animal. After all, what is it but a surrogate, a snuggly swatch of portable security, a confidante at age 2 and a (carefully concealed) confidence-builder at 10? Pooh picked up the crusts and pretended to eat them when Marty was 3. Now, holding on to that same Pooh paw is helping him, at 18, pretend that leaving home is no big deal.
In child development circles, they're called transitional love objects. Kids use a TLO to ascend from primitive narcissism to loving something Other. Usually with faux fur. Now, in my third decade of parenthood and stuffed animal husbandry, I realize that the TLO's core quality is predictability. Stuffies stay. They don't go. Try and toss out a synthetic moose, newt, whatever, and you rock the universe. It's irrelevant whether it's been adored or ignored. To quote those fervent inscriptions in yearbooks every June: Don't Ever Change!
So I won't mess with our menagerie — but I don't have to fuel the madness. The next time my hand aches to purchase a stuffed animal for my kids, I'm going to think twice. I will break the anthropomorphizing cycle. Instead, I will give things without faces, things kids truly love: window-washing squeegees, rolls of duct tape, and, best of all, big, sturdy, empty cardboard boxes.
Overly Plushed?
To find out how to donate your new or gently used stuffies, go to:
