My first two daughters never had an attachment item. No blankie, no lovey, nothing they’d fight you for at bedtime.
Instead they had collections. My oldest needed about 30 binkies in her crib, and when one fell out she’d just roll over to the next one like a hungry hippo. Not a great habit. One day, my wife cut all the tips off all the pacifiers, and it was scorched earth. My middle daughter slept with about 25 big-ass books and rolled around on them all night like a raccoon in a library. The padded classic Goodnight Moon was especially good for her pillow.
Then came my third daughter. And Pinky.
Pinky’s origin story starts on the night my now 3-year-old was born. Third kid, uneventful labor, and my wife and I were genuinely looking forward to a good night’s sleep in the hospital. Then a kid in the next room—not one who had just been born—moaned and sobbed the entire night. My wife, the pro in any travel situation, finagled us a quieter room, an apology from the nurses, and a pink teddy bear with “My First Teddy Bear” stitched on its foot.
Since that memorable night, that bear has been through everything. Puked on. Peed on. Food-ed on. Washed constantly. Grounded outside for days at a time, jammed into a dirty tricycle cupholder. Two hospital trips, seven nights total, exposed to probably every disease in the building. Pinky always comes back like a pro.
I’ve gone back to stores and restaurants on foot or by car at least a dozen times, 30 to 60 minutes after we’d left, to rescue Pinky from a shelf or a booth. Every time she’s sitting there waiting, like she knew I’d come. Toy Story vibes, right?
Today, Pinky looks like a shriveled old pink-ish sock. She can’t sit up. Her neck is a limp noodle. She’s a thoroughbred that’s been completely run out on the track, but she’s ready to go at a moment’s notice. Pinky is everything.
Here’s where I start tearing up. Navy is asking for Pinky less. She might be drifting away. Which means she’s not a baby anymore, the kids are growing up, I’m an old man, and it’s all over. My back hurts all the time. Scary stuff.
So I have a plan. When Navy gets married, I’m restuffing Pinky and presenting her at the altar. The husband accepts Pinky along with the rest of this family, or there’s no marriage. And when it’s time for speeches, I’m the one who speaks on behalf of Pinky.
I might be more attached to that bear than to some of our pets. Don’t tell the dogs.
That Sound
The unmistakable sound of a 25-pound toddler slamming against the floor is something I never thought I would be able to recognize.
The first time, I think I literally dropped what was in my hand, out of breath, racing to her. “Oh, my god. Is she okay? IS SHE OKAY?”
Now, I understand this is part of their powers. I fall like that, and I’m laid up for two weeks. The third kid goes down on the daily. “You OK?” I say without looking up from the game. “Shake it off, sailor.”
Small Talk
“They’re like pencil erasers.”
My 3-year-old, who is currently obsessed with nipples. Mine, her mom’s, anyone’s within reach. Ah, the human body.
Loose Change
My two oldest daughters documented, graphed and analyzed the 350-plus pieces of Halloween candy they hauled in together. Real charts. I contributed by eating so many Reese’s that I threw up the trend line (math nerd joke alert).
My youngest went as Beetlejuice. If you thought the original was scary riding his sand snake through the Netherworld, try this one on six bags of Nerds, running around your floors like a feral dog.
Beetlejuice, 3, always had trouble following the rules. Cheers to the creative costumes, ridiculous amounts of candy, and BFFs like Pinky.
Ryan
