My 9-year-old daughter still carries around her lovie. It’s a disgusting, part-blankie, part-bunny hybrid that she’s had since she came home from the NICU. Once upon a time, it was soft and fluffy, a pristine baby gift meant to bring comfort. Now, it is a biohazard. It has lost all traces of its original color, replaced by a grayish patina of questionable origins. The smell—oh, the smell—has become an entity of its own. No matter how many times I wash it, the odor lingers, as if Bunny himself is fighting back against his demise.
On multiple occasions, I have fantasized about “accidentally” losing Bunny. I’ve considered every possible method of disposal. A Viking funeral, complete with a tiny raft and flaming arrows. A dramatic toss into the fireplace while claiming ignorance. A casual drop into a deep lake, ensuring there is no chance of recovery. And yet, every time I come close to executing my plan, I am stopped by the sheer panic I know would follow.
Because my daughter needs Bunny, I fear this dependency is permanent.
I imagine her, years from now, hunched over an SAT prep book, consulting Bunny on vocabulary words. “Bunny, do you know what ‘abscond’ means?” Yes, child, I can tell you—it means what Bunny will do the moment I get my hands on him.
This attachment is not new. When she was younger, the mere thought of losing Bunny could send her into a downward spiral. If Bunny went missing, our household descended into full-scale crisis mode. A search party would be assembled. Flashlights. Desperate prayers. A level of panic usually reserved for house fires or missing pets.
I remember one particularly trying night when Bunny was nowhere to be found. I had reached my limit. Instead of scouring the house for the millionth time, I took a deep breath and said, “Oh well.”
It did not go well. My daughter barely slept for three days. Dark circles appeared under her eyes. She looked like a Victorian child suffering from an unspecified illness. Finally, our cleaning crew found Bunny wedged behind a bookshelf. I have never seen such raw relief in a child’s face. She clutched him to her chest like a war hero returning home. Life could resume.
But at what cost? Will this continue into adulthood? Will I get frantic phone calls from her college dorm in the middle of the night? “Mom, I can’t find Bunny! What if someone took him?!” Will her future sorority have to issue an APB, a mass email warning everyone to be on high alert for a ragged, discolored stuffed animal?
And what happens if she becomes a doctor? Will Bunny be in the OR with her? “Now, Bunny, we begin with a midline incision.” Or will she be practicing opening and closing arguments with him if she chooses law school? “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client, Bunny, has been wrongfully accused.”
To be fair, there are moments when I understand. Bunny is her comfort.
He keeps her secrets, the silent witness to her most challenging days. She reads to Bunny every night. She whispers her worries to him when she doesn’t want to talk to anyone else. In a way, Bunny is her first therapist, a source of unconditional support in a chaotic world. And I love that for her.
But I also fear Bunny is more than just a comfort object—he is a crutch.
A security blanket that she may never be ready to let go of. I don’t want her to isolate herself in a world where only Bunny understands. Life is unpredictable, and I worry about what will happen if he finally disappears for good. How will she cope? Will she be okay?
I know, deep down, that this won’t last forever. One day, Bunny will be relegated to a keepsake box tucked away in a closet or an attic, brought out only for nostalgia. But right now, as I sit here contemplating my next failed attempt to rid our lives of this immortal stuffed rabbit, I can’t help but wonder…
What if Bunny never leaves? What if Bunny outlives us all?
