Our Stuffed Companions
Our childhood attachment to stuffed companions isn’t wholly rational when you consider how odd many of them are. Maybe at a very young age we are able to recognize in our companions a unique trait we possess ourselves. Eliot’s stuffed penguin is a perfect example. Anyone who has seen March of the Penguins knows that these creatures have an inordinate amount of patience. They can stand on the outside of a mass of penguins for long periods of time being assaulted by ice and wind, knowing that eventually they will shuffle to the inside of the circle while the warmed penguins take their shift on the outside. And being equitable, one mate takes a very long turn covering the egg while the other embarks on the journey for food, then, like the huddlers, they switch.
When Eliot was two, our friend Susan gave him a foot high penguin for Christmas, and Eliot spent all his time locked in a bear hug with Penguin. Penguin got a thousand kisses a day. Eliot dragged him around the house by the wing. At night he slept with an arm thrown around Penguin. Several nights in a row I found the two of them asleep in exactly the same position. Once it was Eliot and Penguin facing the same way, Penguin spooning up against him. Once it was Eliot asleep on his side with an arm thrown over his face, Penguin behind him also on his side, a wing thrown over his head.
There was a synchronicity to Eliot and Penguin. Eliot rarely got frustrated with his own shortcomings, and instead, artfully avoided difficult tasks. With a lot of coaxing from us, he took on these tasks when he was ready. Like the penguin, his progress was slow, steady, and amazing.
Around the time Eliot started talking, his grandmother Sushi gave him a stuffed Curious George, and Penguin had to make room for George. George had his own voice, a deeper, hollower version of Eliot’s. He sounded a lot like Mister Bill from old Saturday Night Live episodes. In fact his life was a lot like Mr. Bill’s. George “fell” in the fishpond and he fell in the toilet. George landed on the burner (turned off) and he landed in the pancake griddle. You knew when you heard George’s panicked call for help that he had been pitched into a dangerous spot.
Carly’s stuffed companion was a doll Blue and I bought in Oaxaca before she was born. He was “Man” to us, but when Carly adopted him he became Little Man. Little Man has red cloth skin and a black yarn mohawk. He represents the part of Carly that thinks outside the box.
I recently sewed Little Man’s head back on for the second time. It was late at night and I was sewing in bed, so when I finished I slipped him onto the pillow facing Carly’s sleeping head. Being twelve made her no less elated when she woke in the middle of the night to the outline of his mohawk in the dark.
Little Man has been through many transformations. First he lost his clothes and was naked Little Man. Then his arm fell off and I sewed it back on. Then his head fell off (the first time) and our friend Dr. Weber, a neurologist, sewed it back on. Then his arm fell off again, and since Carly’s aunt Shelley was born with one hand, we decided Little Man didn’t need his other arm either.
Our stuffed creatures provide comfort and security in a sometimes frightening world, all the more so in adolescence. We are very young when we first notice that the world around us is constantly changing. I was pregnant with Eliot when I moved Carly out of the crib and into her own room. In the newfound freedom of her room, she played until she fell asleep. Once I found her conked out on her back, spread eagle in a pair of cowboy boots. But one night she climbed into the crib, bereft as it was of blankets or animals or even a mattress cover. She wrapped herself in her blanket, rolled like a taco over the bars, and thumped down onto the bare mattress.
I had always wanted to crawl into the crib with her but had wondered if it would hold my weight. Now, nine months pregnant, I didn’t hesitate. I climbed in, and it held. I put my arms around her and cried. I thought about how she was giving up her place of safety. It seemed she would rather have that place in its cold plastic nakedness than not at all.
A few days later when it had quieted down in her room at nap time, I went to check on her and found her in the crib, cheek plastered to the cold coverless mattress. She had brought her books with her, and Little Man. While she slept, Little Man sat propped up against the crib bars, guarding the shrine of books.
I never found her in the crib again. What I found a few nights later was Carly asleep in her bed and her Lego people in the crib, face down side by side. As if only now that she had made her pilgrimages to the crib, was she able to make room for the little person she had been told would emerge from her mother’s belly.
When Eliot was two, our friend Susan gave him a foot high penguin for Christmas, and Eliot spent all his time locked in a bear hug with Penguin. Penguin got a thousand kisses a day. Eliot dragged him around the house by the wing. At night he slept with an arm thrown around Penguin. Several nights in a row I found the two of them asleep in exactly the same position. Once it was Eliot and Penguin facing the same way, Penguin spooning up against him. Once it was Eliot asleep on his side with an arm thrown over his face, Penguin behind him also on his side, a wing thrown over his head.
There was a synchronicity to Eliot and Penguin. Eliot rarely got frustrated with his own shortcomings, and instead, artfully avoided difficult tasks. With a lot of coaxing from us, he took on these tasks when he was ready. Like the penguin, his progress was slow, steady, and amazing.
Around the time Eliot started talking, his grandmother Sushi gave him a stuffed Curious George, and Penguin had to make room for George. George had his own voice, a deeper, hollower version of Eliot’s. He sounded a lot like Mister Bill from old Saturday Night Live episodes. In fact his life was a lot like Mr. Bill’s. George “fell” in the fishpond and he fell in the toilet. George landed on the burner (turned off) and he landed in the pancake griddle. You knew when you heard George’s panicked call for help that he had been pitched into a dangerous spot.
Carly’s stuffed companion was a doll Blue and I bought in Oaxaca before she was born. He was “Man” to us, but when Carly adopted him he became Little Man. Little Man has red cloth skin and a black yarn mohawk. He represents the part of Carly that thinks outside the box.
I recently sewed Little Man’s head back on for the second time. It was late at night and I was sewing in bed, so when I finished I slipped him onto the pillow facing Carly’s sleeping head. Being twelve made her no less elated when she woke in the middle of the night to the outline of his mohawk in the dark.
Little Man has been through many transformations. First he lost his clothes and was naked Little Man. Then his arm fell off and I sewed it back on. Then his head fell off (the first time) and our friend Dr. Weber, a neurologist, sewed it back on. Then his arm fell off again, and since Carly’s aunt Shelley was born with one hand, we decided Little Man didn’t need his other arm either.
Our stuffed creatures provide comfort and security in a sometimes frightening world, all the more so in adolescence. We are very young when we first notice that the world around us is constantly changing. I was pregnant with Eliot when I moved Carly out of the crib and into her own room. In the newfound freedom of her room, she played until she fell asleep. Once I found her conked out on her back, spread eagle in a pair of cowboy boots. But one night she climbed into the crib, bereft as it was of blankets or animals or even a mattress cover. She wrapped herself in her blanket, rolled like a taco over the bars, and thumped down onto the bare mattress.
I had always wanted to crawl into the crib with her but had wondered if it would hold my weight. Now, nine months pregnant, I didn’t hesitate. I climbed in, and it held. I put my arms around her and cried. I thought about how she was giving up her place of safety. It seemed she would rather have that place in its cold plastic nakedness than not at all.
A few days later when it had quieted down in her room at nap time, I went to check on her and found her in the crib, cheek plastered to the cold coverless mattress. She had brought her books with her, and Little Man. While she slept, Little Man sat propped up against the crib bars, guarding the shrine of books.
I never found her in the crib again. What I found a few nights later was Carly asleep in her bed and her Lego people in the crib, face down side by side. As if only now that she had made her pilgrimages to the crib, was she able to make room for the little person she had been told would emerge from her mother’s belly.
posted by Victoria Tatum at 9:48 AM
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