Children and their stuffed animals

I just witnessed my seven-year-old set her armload of stuffed animals down in the hallway before entering the bathroom. She said to them, “Wait right here for me.”

This isn’t Ribbity, but his big sister Catherine. I guess you could say I’m feeding the frog addiction. I can never let her eat at a fancy French restaurant. It would be too traumatizing.

My ten-year-old wanted to restuff her frog, Ribbity. I told her, “Unless there’s a hole in him already, I’ll have to open him up.” She said, in a pained voice, “If you do, I don’t want to watch.”

I performed the operation in a separate room while she alternately sat and paced, biting her nails, in the “waiting room.”

At last Ribbity’s operation was complete: restuffed, restitched, and looking like he’d consumed a bottle of steroids. My daughter was teary-eyed with relief.

My sister grew up with a stuffed polar bear she creatively named Blizzard. That bear went everywhere with her. Even into her young adult life she would pack him in her carry-on in such a way that she would leave the zipper slightly undone–just enough for Blizzard’s nose and mouth to stick out for air.

If it were me, I would hope others were thinking I just didn’t have enough space to zip the bag completely. But knowing my sister, she was all for others knowing she was letting her favorite stuffed animal breathe.

It’s good to be young at heart.

Happy Memorial Day, everyone!