TOY STORY 3.5

Remember the end of Toy Story 3? When Andy gives all his toys to an adorable curly-headed little girl who believes they are real? Because Andy knows she will love them forever and ever and ever? 

Okay. Well, that little girl's name was Bonnie, which means I'm pretty sure someone from Pixar knows about me. 

As a former adorable, curly-headed little girl myself, I too believed that my toys were alive. The problem is, I am now a decidedly less adorable adult who still retains that belief. (That is why, to this day, I never put dolls or stuffed animals in a box without air holes.) 

This quirk is something my husband is aware of, but he has accepted it and tries not to comment on it. In return, I continue to pretend that the Marvel Universe really exists. This arrangement has worked quite well for both of us. 

Until recently, when my cover was blown. 

Here’s what happened. My husband and I were home, babysitting our grandson who was napping in another room. Our son arrived and, after a cheerful hello, went to peek in on his little buddy. He reappeared a few moments later, somewhat pale and notably less cheerful, with something dangling between his thumb and forefinger. (Not my grandson.) 

“Ma. What the hell?” 

Now, before we go any further, you need to know that I happen to have a treasured 62-year-old stuffed lamb, with the inspired name of Lamby, who is normally tucked away on the shelf of my bedroom closet. Lamby no longer has anything resembling fur, his ears are the thickness of tissue paper, and one of his legs is literally hanging on by a thread. He also has a disturbing odor. He is, in other words, the nursery school equivalent of Norman Bates’s mother. 

And that’s what my son was holding. 

“What was this doing in the crib with my child?” he asked. 

 

“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” I said, cringing. “I mean, I meant to take him out this morning.” 

“Okay. But why was he there in the first place?” 

I remained silent, so my son turned to my husband. 

“Dad? Do you know?” 

“I do.” 

“Well?” 

“Mom was worried that Lamby was lonely.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Well there used to be a stuffed cat up there, too, but then Mom gave the cat to your little guy to play with one day and he fell in love with it and took it home.” 

“So…Mom started putting Lamby in the crib with the other stuffed animals so he’d have someone to talk to?” 

“Yes. Blue Bunny and Big Bear and Fluffy Puppy.” 

(This is not the complete story, by the way. When I first put Lamby in the crib, my husband, displaying a sadistic streak I didn’t know he possessed, decided to torture me by asking if I thought the other stuffed animals might beat up on him. I immediately checked on them to make sure no one’s position in the crib had changed. For a glimpse inside my head, see below.)

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I know I’m not a well person.” 

My son, now speechless, returned to the bedroom to retrieve his son. I turned to my husband. 

“Do you think he’ll ever let us babysit again?” 

“Well, maybe not you…”