Whoorl wrote a nice piece about her childhood blanket and challenged her readers to write too. I am writing about my favorite childhood stuffed animal. This week we had Staff Appriciation week at school and we each brought in an artifact that represents us. I brought my bear. Almost no one guessed he was mine.
He’s my bear. He doesn’t have a name. I always thought it was stupid when people asked his name. He’s a bear, a stuffed toy, why would he have a name? I know people name their stuffed animals, and in fact, I named other stuffed animals, just not my bear.
I have had my bear since I was about 18 months old. According to my parents we went to Florida to visit Sylvia and Bill that fall. Bill was my dad’s cousin, but they were way older than my parents, so they were more like grandparents. While we were there they had a birthday party for me. I certainly don’t remember it, but I have seen pictures. We were all wearing party hats.
I don’t remember a time not having my bear. He is flat and balding. His tongue is gone and his nose is rubbed off. His eyes are scratched and he has cataracts of clear nail polish from where I tried to fix the scratches. He used to be kind of yellow, but now he is a grayish color. His tag is worn and hard to read. When I was little and my mom would wash him, I would get mad. He got all fluffy and not comfortable. So I would throw him down the stairs and jump on him.
I took my bear with me everywhere. He went to DC with me in middle school. He went back and forth to college a dozen times or more. He always rode outside my bag on planes so he has been through several x-ray machines. He hasn’t traveled since I graduated, so I guess he needs a trip. I think he will go in the car with us to Sweet Briar this spring.
He doesn’t have a place of honor or anything. He still sleeps in my room, but he is buried under extra blankets and PJs to keep him safe from my kitty. When my husband is away, my bear sleeps on his spot.
He is my bear.