The other day, I had an epiphany.
I am obsessed with childhood.
Toys, books, work, home… everything.
It’s not even like I had a drab childhood or anything—on the contrary, my childhood was the best thing ever.
Which is probably why I’m so reluctant to let it go.
The other day, I was reading Yotsuba, wishing that I could be a little five year old man who carries around their stuffed animal and uses big words incorrectly.
I have a stuffed animal like that. Her name is Little Nemo.
This is a picture from move-in day at Mary Washington. My parents wanted a picture because, after they got over their surprise, they thought it was *cute* that I was bringing Nemo with me to college.
I got Nemo for Christmas when I was five. She used to be fluffy and kitten-looking, but time wore her fur and all the puffiness away. Personally, I think she’s far cuter the way she is now.
Nemo has been through a lot. For example, when I showed her to one of Erics friends, he told me her brains were rattling in her head. I was mortified- Little Nemo had a ball which did indeed roll around her enormous head, making a purring sound whenever she was moved. Some find it near impossible to sleep when they hear the “rrrrrrrrr” from Nemo—I find it relaxing.
Also, I apparently almost left her in a hotel room, and Eric found her and brought her to me before we left. Whoops.
She used to be the queen and have her own kingdom in the time of the Beanies, but then she got demoted because Eric decided he was “too old to play with Beanie Babies”. (That’s a story for another time).
I remember my friends dog, Haku, grabbing Nemos big ‘ol head and carrying her around the head like a play toy. I was furious.
Oh, and Little Nemo comes from “Nemo in Slumberland”, the children’s movie with the little boy. Apparently, my Mom always thought that my stuffed animal was a boy because I named her Nemo. No. She’s a She. Oh, and my Dad suggested the name. I’m not sure if I agreed to it, or if it just caught on.
Basically, Little Nemo is that one thing that everyone has since childhood that looks ratty and dirty and old, but they can’t possibly be parted from it. She’s the icon of my childhood that just makes me remember and be jealous of how good those years were.
Childhood wasn’t always good though.
One of my earliest and least-fond moments is from when I was around four years old.
These were the days before I learned that everything Eric told me wasn’t true.
Eric told me that there was a gang of plush teddy bears in the basement, led by the Creepy Panda, and that they were all there to do his evil bidding.
Well, I was scared, even though I’m not sure what evil teddy bears could do to harm me. I guess they could tear out their stuffing and throw it at me. Or else bang their glass eyes repeatedly on my feet. However, both would be far more damaging to the bear gang, so most of their threats were psychological.
Four years old is the age when you start to realize that certain things can’t happen. For instance, Santa doesn’t really come, the Cat can’t communicate in English, and teddy bears can’t walk.
Well, this gang was different.
One morning during the summer I woke up and sprung out of bed like bread from a toaster. I was excited, god knows for what, dashed to my bedroom door, opened it, when…
There they were.
Lined up in a row outside of my door, with Creepy Panda in the middle, they stood, ear to ear, just daring me to take one step closer.
I was stuck in my room, away from the safety of Mom or Dad. I ran back to bed and huddled there for about an hour until Dad got back from the grocery store.
“Daaaaaaaad” I yelled, and he came to check on me, giving a confused glance to the teddy bears surrounding the door.
I told him they were evil, that Eric had sent them to destroy me.
Times like those, I sure would have loved to know how Dad kept form cracking up.
The teddy bears were put in a box in the basement, and Eric was told not to threaten his little sister with plush ever again.
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