Keep it forever

On the childhood lovies we still cherish

Scanning the sleek leather bag, a TSA agent notices the well-worn stuffed animal.

“Are you flying with children today?” she says, raising her eyes to check the line.

“No,” says the traveler. “He’s mine.”

Thirty-four months ago, my younger daughter left her life on the east coast of the United States to continue her role as a professional caregiver in Sydney, Australia. Ten days from now, she will turn a year older, putting her just two birthdays shy of 30.

Her companion on the recent flight: a toy rat whom she’s had since she was four.

Or maybe three. Or five. Life barreling along as it does, we didn’t commit his Gotcha Day to memory. He was a gift from an aunt, all floppy and cuddlesome, his playful, curled tail crafted of the same pink velveteen that lines his pancake ears and covers his nuzzle-worthy nose.

At no time prior had this child shown interest in binkies, blankies, or other lovies.

No, that’s not right. She’d shown plenty of interest, at least when it came to stuffed pals. But it was a universal affection. They were all part of her community, and she had a nighttime ritual that required recognizing most of them. She was an equal opportunity friend. We had no way to know that, with Dodgie, a very different relationship was about to emerge.

His name came to her readily. Not long after, she crafted a prescient, little ditty which she recited as she danced him around in the air.

My name is Dodgie
And I’m a boy and a girl
And I hide my pearl
And my tail is curled

Dodgie became an accomplice and an ally, a playmate and a protector, a sleep-aid and safe haven for a girl whose big emotions took kindly to the steadying force of his ready acceptance.

Dodgie is what parenting and behavior experts call a transitional object, something that provides a sense of security and familiarity, helping kids bridge the emotional gap between dependence and independence. Research tells us that as many as 70% of Western children have such attachments. (It’s less common in places where children and parents co-sleep.)

There is no predictable or recommended age for children to part ways with their comfort objects, but we presume it comes with maturity. We’re not wrong. And we’re only partially right.

Some adults substitute behaviors like hair twisting, pen clicking, or humming to self-sooth. Others—many others—stick with old habits. A 2017 survey conducted by the Build-a-Bear corporation found that more than half of adults still have their childhood blankets and toys, 40% continue to sleep with them, and 72% expect to keep them forever.

Given the choice, I’m sure I’d still have mine.

The summer of my 20th birthday, my mother took me to Europe. After a marvelous time touring Switzerland, Austria, and the French countryside, we made our way to Paris, where everything fell apart.

On our last day there, a visit fraught with frustration turned even more miserable. In the bustling Gare du Nord, ahead of a final jaunt to London, my carry-on bag was snatched by stealthy thieves. I glanced away for a moment, the briefest of diversions, to make eye contact with my mom across the aisle. When I looked back, the space at the front of my luggage trolley was suddenly empty. Two men sat on the floor nearby, backs against a wall of lockers. They’d stolen my bag, I was certain. But I couldn’t prove it and wasn’t bold enough to confront them.

Facing my naiveté was almost worse than acknowledging what they’d taken. I stood in horrified astonishment, tallying up the cost of my mistake: A favorite pair of silver earrings; my travel journal; my 35-mm camera, and with it all hope of any photos from the trip.

Then, in a flood of dismay, I remembered my little pillow. My pillow! They’d stolen my baby pillow! My comfort, my treasure, my lifelong friend! I fell to my knees. Crying inconsolably, I imagined them discarding it like a piece of trash. Even now, all these years later, my heart aches from the memory.

For my next birthday, my parents replaced the pillow. The new one was feather, like the original, a bit larger overall, and much fluffier. Instead of a dingy, threadbare, cotton cover, this one was cloaked in white satin that had the unfortunate effect of allowing the pillowcase to slide off unexpectedly. It was a functional pillow, and I used it for a number of years, mostly when I traveled. But it wasn’t the one taken from me. It could never be that.

Nothing else could ever hold that many wishes, that many woes, the warm breath of thousands of sleeps, the tears of so many regrets, the whispers, the giggles, the insecurities and triumphs, the conversations of a little girl playing out the meaning of her days, the observations of a young woman ripening into hers.

Yesterday morning, my daughter and Dodgie walked through airport security together in anticipation of a long trip. She’d told me about spending the holidays with her nanny family, flying from New South Wales to Queensland for 10 days on an island near the Great Barrier Reef. Her dad and I were pleased she’d be with good, caring people at a time when it’s easy to feel lonely.

She encouraged me to ship any packages well in advance, so they’d arrive before she left. She sent pictures of her two young charges, all buckled up in their seats waiting for take-off. I knew she was excited to go but wasn’t surprised when she also expressed sadness over not being with us. Her sister is spending Christmas back home, boyfriend in tow, for the first time since she moved southwest six years ago. We anticipate lively festivating together.

Last night, just before we geared up to make dinner, the girl living Down Under fulfilled a plan she hatched months ago, with help from her oldest friend here in the States, new friends where she lives now, her sister, and her bright, bold imagination. She showed up at our door.

The trip with her Australian family had all been a ruse.

In the midst of our raucous reunion, Dodgie sat quietly across the room. He’s an old man now, and it's harder to picture what he looked like in his prime. His fur has lost its silky sheen. He’s floppy in ways he never used to be. He’s gathered a whole lot of life into his gangly gray body, and I figure he expects to keep it there forever.

~Elizabeth

A bear? A blanket? A ribbon from your mother’s sewing box? What was your childhood source of security? I invite you to share about your comfort objects or behaviors in the comments, and I hope at least a few of you will feel safe enough to tell me that you still turn to yours now and again.

The holidays can be joyous and challenging, fulfilling and isolating, sometimes all at once. Whatever this time of year brings you, I want you to know you are an important part of someone’s day, of my day. Your observations, questions and stories mean so much and help keep my curiosity blooming. If today’s piece reminds you of someone or something, I hope you’ll share it. That gives me the chance to meet new readers, make new acquaintances, and who knows, maybe I’ll find a future friend.

What we’re doing here isn’t exactly unique, but it is special, and I want to believe it matters. I’m glad you’re part of it!

This season, my wish is that you can tap into the memory of all the times you were sure of yourself and your place in the world. And I hope some of that bright boldness surprises you by showing up at your door!

Chicken Scratch is intentionally free, a gift I can offer to anyone. If you’re able to upgrade to a paid subscription this holiday season, your contribution will be a gift in that spirit.

In lieu of that, a one-time contribution can also be made here. Any amount is worthwhile. I appreciate what you bring to the world.

Special note: With so much goodness to hold under one roof this year, and with Christmas and New Year’s Day landing successively on the next two Wednesdays, I’m not committing to sharing any new material until January 8th. But next week, you’ll find one of my favorite seasonal essays in your inbox. I hope you can find a few quiet moments to enjoy it [again].

Wishing you light and so much love.