5 Birth Months Who Still Make Room For Their Childhood Stuffed Animal
There's a very grown-up room somewhere with a very small stuffed dog sitting in it. The furniture is new. The dog is practically bald. In this playful birth-month portrait, five months get a little recognition for the childhood companion that still belongs in their adult life.
February
February, the stuffed animal is staying in the living room. Yes, beside the nice lamp. You might have rearranged the shelf three times to accommodate its enormous orange feet, but you like seeing something you love when you walk through the door. A home assembled entirely around what looks tasteful to other people would bore you terribly. Your childhood duck contributes something the expensive pottery cannot: it makes you grin. Visitors can ask about the books, admire the lamp, and meet the duck. You introduce it without lowering your voice.
April
“Do you really need this?” Someone has picked up your oldest stuffed animal during a clear-out, April, and you reach for it before they have finished the question. Yes. You do. You can make decisions quickly about plenty of things, but an old companion gets your loyalty long after its fur has worn thin. This was the creature you tucked under your arm when you were small enough to believe you could protect it from everything. Some part of you still takes that job seriously. The donation bag can have the sweater. Put the rabbit down.
June
You send your sibling a photo with no explanation. Your childhood bear is at the kitchen table, wearing your reading glasses and apparently reviewing the electricity bill. June, the reply comes back almost immediately: “He looks concerned.” Twenty years ago, the two of you were doing exactly this, inventing ridiculous situations for an animal whose expression never changed.
The bear makes occasional appearances in the family chat. You have whole conversations through it: a photo from your couch, a reply from your sibling, a joke that requires absolutely no introduction. Keeping it has given the two of you a way to become kids together for a minute, even when the conversation immediately afterward is about whose turn it is to call the plumber.
August
Before you ever stood in front of an audience, August, your stuffed animal had watched every performance. It sat against the pillow while you sang into a hairbrush, rehearsed a school presentation, or attempted a dance that involved a dangerous amount of furniture. You were gloriously willing to begin before you knew whether you were any good. Looking at that little face now can bring back the pleasure of trying. Perhaps it sits on your desk while you work on something you aren't ready to show anyone. You can make a mess of the first attempt in such familiar company. The bear has already sat through your recorder phase.
December
There is photographic evidence that your childhood stuffed animal has been on more holidays than some of your friends, December. A tiny head poking out of a backpack. A suspicious lump beneath a hotel duvet. Once, an entire picture of the view with two floppy ears in the foreground. You still slip it into your bag when there's room, partly because it's yours and partly because taking it along makes you happy. You can fit your socks around it. It has been ready to go since you opened the suitcase.