Me and the boys: A love story
My daughter, M.E., didn’t play with dolls much. Most Barbies never even made it out of the box. An American Girl Doll, for which I paid a small fortune to have customized to allegedly look like M.E., spent most of her days on a shelf collecting dust.
M.E. was a lover of stuffed animals, or as we called them, “The Boys.” Over the course of her childhood, she collected well over 200: bears, cats, dogs and more. (She is my only child. Yes, I indulged her.)
As is common with kids and stuffed animals, there was one favorite above all others: Big Bear. He was a baby shower gift from a colleague and it was clear very early on that he and M.E. were destined to be lifelong friends. Big Bear went everywhere — to the park, the zoo, trips to grandma’s, even down the aisle when M.E. was a flower girl in her cousin’s bridal party. Later, he went off to college, and spent a semester traveling Europe, before semi-retiring on M.E.’s bed in her apartment, looking “wellloved” after his many years of adventures.
Because of her rich, childhood imagination, every one of M.E.’s boys had a name, a backstory, a distinct personality and voice. Most had sweet and lovable personas, but there were exceptions.
There was a green alligator who spoke in a gruff manner and was nothing but trouble. He would sometimes demand a “road trip,” which involved piling him and 30 to 40 other boys in the back seat of the car to take the ride when dropping off M.E. at school. Every night, we would have to deputize, from the well-behaved boys, a “morale officer,” who would stay up all night and keep the alligator in line while M.E. slept.
And then there was the rat. His tag said his name was Scabbers, from the Harry Potter book series, but that was a lie. He suddenly revealed his true identity one day while we were driving. “Hello, hello,” he said from the back of the car in a peculiarly accented voice. “My name is Albert M. Steenensteen and I am the Mayor of Shenovia.”
Like the classic comedy routine, “The 2000-Year-Old Man,” where reporter Carl Reiner peppered the ancient man, Mel Brooks, with leading questions, I began peppering Albert with any question I could think of. Unlike M.E., he was never shy in his answers, wildly pontificating on everything from his feelings on cats and squirrels (“Two of the most stupid animals on the planet!”), his favorite food (“Gravy”) and his inexplicable disdain for a particular national hotel chain (“Never go there! It’s a toilet...”).
Our conversations, and the glimpses they offered into the inner workings of my daughter’s little mind, went on for years, in person and via emails and lunch box notes.
These days, M.E. is now 28 years old and resides in Washington, D.C. Albert resides on a bookshelf, but most of the other boys have been relocated — stuffed into giant clear plastic bags and moved to the attic, next to the Christmas decorations.
***
I am now at the age where the word “downsizing” is starting to worm its way into the conversation. How could it not? There isn’t much logic in a recently retired man living alone in a three-story, seven-bedroom house on Staten Island. But, as I quickly discovered, the process of downsizing can be extraordinarily emotional.
It means I’m recognizing that I’m getting older. Three flights of stairs aren’t an issue yet, but the day when they will start to become one is in sight. It means I’m conceding some house projects I’ve always dreamed of tackling will never get done; I’m leaving them for the next guy. And it means parting with things, cherished items collected over a lifetime — furniture, pottery, books, the house itself and ... the dozen or so bags of boys in the attic.
Someday, in the not-too-distant future, M.E. and I will begin the difficult task of going through the bags, sorting the boys into three groups: those whom we can’t possibly say goodbye to, those whose condition is like new and for whom we will try to find a new home, and those who are too worn from too much play and will need to be discarded.
Maybe I’ve seen the movie “Toy Story” one too many times, where kids’ toys are anthropomorphized, but the thought of bidding farewell to some of these boys has made me sad beyond reason.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m somehow betraying them after their years of faithful service as tea party guests, security guards at sofa cushion forts, snuggle buddies during afternoon naps.
I hope these dear old friends of plush fabric can find it in their polyester-filled hearts to forgive me.