Lolly
I refuse to hold onto things for sentimental value. The exception? Any—any—stuffed animal my children have ever loved.
My son is in love.
The relationship has had its ups and downs but has remained steadfast since the day, years ago, he brought her home.
I didn’t let myself get attached at first; he’s fallen in love before. But this purple cat was different. She’s the kind with the plushy fur and frighteningly enormous plastic eyes. She’s about the size of a grown man’s hand: perfect for a three-to-five year old to carry in the crook of his arm.
My boy inexplicably named this kitty Lolly. Prior to Lolly, he had variations of this same cat: Catchy, with rainbow fur; pink and white Lainy; gray Sally with a sparkling bow. He loved each kitty deeply in quick bursts until his babysitter gifted him this purple version and he never had eyes for another.
His is the type of love that threatens bedtime when Lolly is in the laundry or has been hidden away inside a toy truck/cabinet/couch cushion nest. He delights at seeing her wave from the window as his dad drives him off to school. When he snuggles up with her at night, my son talks to her in a high-pitched, lispy Lolly-voice and burrows his small face against her small face with a smile wide enough to defrost relations between Washington and the Kremlin. He brings Lolly to school for every show-and-tell—we imagine his classmates rolling their eyes, saying “Hi again, Lolly.” Daily, he assures her she’s “The cutest Lolly-squish in the world!”
Because my son loves Lolly so deeply, I love Lolly deeply too. And because he is five years old and midway through Kindergarten, I dread the gradual lessening of his attachment. I dread the day we realize that Lolly has been under his bed for a stretch of nights. One day, we’ll cease to hear him talking in her funny voice and he’ll be embarrassed to see me waving her out the window at him. I hope it’s still a long way off.
I lean minimalist when it comes to stuff, ruthless about throwing or giving away rarely used items. I refuse to hold onto things for sentimental value.
The exception? Any—any—stuffed animal my children have ever loved.
Catchy, Lainey and Sally, the forgotten catch-and-release kitten-loves of my son’s toddler years? Still here, even though they’re rarely snuggled. Blue Fluffy and Yellow Fluffy, the tiny blankets with animal heads he loved as a baby, remain nestled in the toy basket.
My oldest went through phases of fondness for Moo-Moo, Mama Doug, and Munny Bunny, all of whom remain members of the extended family.
Our three-year-old has a fondness for his stuffed dinosaur and the baby has developed a soul-deep attachment to Slothy the… sloth. I don’t care if they discard them tomorrow, my husband and I will never be able to let them go.
Maybe it stems from my own neurotic childhood, when I believed so deeply in the soul of things that I couldn’t sleep until I had said goodnight to every item in my room, including things like doorknobs and desk drawers. Maybe callousness was the only way I could avoid hoarding: instead of recognizing the spark of life in every scrap of paper and piece of clothing, I shut it down, shut it out. But then I see my kids with their animals. They see that spark of life, too. They affirm what I thought was there all along. How can I let their toys go knowing that the soul in them was real, after all?
Whenever I question my motherliness, my lovingness, my devotion to my children, I think about how, when I tuck my son in at night, I lie next to him and dance each of his beloved kitties across his tummy. Sometimes other stuffies join the party. I know all of their names. I know their unique voices. How much must I love my children to love their imaginary friends in this way? With their help, I make my boy smile and laugh his way to sleep.
