Picture this: you are unpacking your bag after a weekend away with your six—and seven-year-old daughters, and you suddenly discover that your oldest daughter’s most prized possession, the stuffed lamb, which she lovingly called “Lamby ” and has slept with every night since the day she was born is missing.
The first stage you go through as a parent is denial. Sure, he’s in here somewhere. I didn’t check the right bag.
So you frantically start ripping through bags, tossing clothes around the room. No Lamby.
Next, anger sets in. Why can’t she be responsible for her things? I mean, really? Of all things to lose, she loses her favorite item in the world. She needs to learn.
The next stage is bargaining. Ya know, she’s almost eight. I really don’t think she will even care all that much about an old, dirty stuffed animal. After all, she has grown out of the stuffed animal stage. Maybe she won’t take the news too badly that he is missing.
This is where depression sets in. I suddenly feel a bit nauseous and weepy. The very thing my daughter loved most in this world is missing, and I think it affects me more than it will affect her. This random stuffed animal that our neighbors dropped off for her as a welcome home gift from the hospital instantly became her security, comfort, and sense of peace.
Lamby, the raggedy toy that caught countless tears, was cuddled to the point of losing its soft fur and tossed about throughout her bed.
Lamby is the same stuffie who traveled on long road trips, took a few flights, and sat with us at our dinner table.
Lamby, the plushie, sat in the corner of her crib, the side of her toddler bed, and next to her in her big girl bed.
I hold back the tears as I realize that this once insignificant, random stuffed animal has truly been a part of our family. And I have relied on it. I’ve relied on it to help my daughter sleep, comfort her in times of sadness, make her smile, and just be there.
And it wasn’t until it was gone that I realized how important this raggedy old toy was to our entire family.
Now, I bet you’re wondering if we found him. Well, we did. But not after spending $50 on Poshmark for a replacement in case he never returned. And if you are curious, how did my daughter handle the news of him being missing? Let’s say it wasn’t good.
Lamby was tousled in the covers of the hotel we were staying in, and after four phone calls to the concierge urging them to check again, he miraculously appeared. A week later, Lamby arrived in a large brown box with a little post-it note attached. A detailed drawing of Lamby on the beach with a clever note written by the housekeeping staff was attached. They had taken care of him, just as we would have.
Now, I won’t go into details of my second daughter’s most prized possession: a baby girl doll she randomly and hilariously named “Baby John.” Poor old Baby John has been through the wringer, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that if we ever misplaced Baby John, we would all be in for a world of hurt.
