A Pattern of Words

Once upon a time, I gave birth to a baby. At the baby shower, I was given a small elephant lovey. It was pretty inconsequential – just a cheap animal clutching a blanket, made in a common print. It mostly lived in a small box of toys and never really drew the baby’s attention. THEN Baby 2 was born. I remember trying to transition him from sleeping in the crook of my elbow (something I swore I’d never do with my first) to the big crib in his own room. The transition wasn’t as smooth as with my first child and in desperation, I took that elephant lovey, stuck it under my pillow for a few days to absorb my milky scent, than tossed it into the crib.

I don’t really recall how quickly it happened, but I do remember being startled one day to realize that the lovey was not only adored, but much sucked on. That little gray elephant trunk kept dipping precariously into darker shades of dinge until I’d panic-toss it in the washer (with a hefty spray of shout) and sighed in relief when it looked marginally cleaner. Lovey rapidly graduated from a simple blankey-toy to a real-name-real-cherished Lovey. “WHERE’S LOVEY?!” became a common shout as my second born experimented with leaving him behind books on rarely used bookshelves, stuffing him into tiny garbage trucks, tucking him behind porch pillows, and hiding him in empty linen closet crevices, then howling in angst when he couldn’t be located. After one particularly harrowing search that took over four hours and involved much sobbing and screaming, I sat stewing over the fact that this no-longer-made Lovey was fetching prices of $50 or more on Ebay and my husband kept muttering that he’d insert a GPS tracker in its head.

Time moved on. Lovey continued to be adored. “Surely,” I thought to myself, “he’ll become a thing of the past soon?” A third birthday crept by, a fourth followed, and still Lovey remained tightly clasped in my son’s hand for every book read, movie watched, tantrum cried, and night slumbered. We began to pack for the Big Move. The house was turned upside down, belongings put into storage, children’s lives thrown into chaos. Anxiety crept into a tiny corner of my brain, convinced Lovey would be misplaced in the confusion.

And that’s when I saw it. “$3 for this brand new, never used Lovey,” read the post on the Buy/Sell/Trade group. It was Lovey. Newer, fresher, cleaner, but still Lovey. “Should I…?” I mused. A little hand grabbed my phone, the voice squeaky with excitement. “HEY! That’s MY Lovey!” he chirped, waving his grimy old Lovey in recognition with the other hand. “Why’s my Lovey on your phone?!” Without a second thought, I claimed the lovey and made a note to myself to pick it up from a home just down the road. “It’ll be good to have a backup lovey,” I murmured.

When I picked it up, I laughed to see how new this toy looked. Fluffy and impossibly clean and bright. Little elephant trunk perfectly coiled. I tucked it into my closet, determined to wash it several times before seeing if I could swap it unnoticed. Later, dumping the fresh laundry onto my bed, I forgot the new lovey was in there. My thirdborn, always following her big brothers around, grew wide-eyed at the discovery of unattended Lovey abandoned on my bed, her observation skills obviously lacking enough to miss their blatant differences. She curled up with him, completely delighted to have company as she watched tv. I tried bargaining, I tried commanding, but she wouldn’t let go. Finally, I had to snag it away at a quick moment of distraction and then she wandered the house looking for him, completely befuddled when she spotted her brother holding his Lovey in the other room. “Lovey?” she lisped, understandably confused and disappointed how the animal had crept from her arms to his so quickly. I hid the toy away to await its further need.

The opportunity came quickly. We couldn’t find Lovey and his master was anxious. After a thorough search, I slyly tossed him the new lovey. “Oh look, here he is. He just came out of the wash machine!” My child frowned. He looked down to examine what lay in his arms. His eyebrows wrinkled in bemusement. He gave a slow, experimental stroke of the animal against his cheek, then burst into delighted giggles. “But Mama, this isn’t MY lovey! Where did this come from? Who is he?”

“What do you mean?” I feigned ignorance. “How is that not your Lovey?” His giggles became full-on belly laughs. “This is NOT my Lovey. But he’s nice! I like him! But he’s not my Lovey.” He gave a final laugh and then dropped the lovey on the floor with disinterest. Five seconds later, he found his Lovey buried under a pillow. (I swore I examined that entire room multiple times) At the discovery of HIS Lovey, the two were put side by side and examined with more laughter. Siblings were consulted. Lovey and lovey were introduced to each other. Backup Lovey was officially christened then discarded. For maybe five seconds.

My daughter’s eyes lit up when she spotted him. She grabbed him and hugged him close. My son’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not your lovey,” he frowned, but she growled when he tried to take it. “Just let her hold him,” I advised, figuring she’d return to her favorite doll quickly. He shrugged and walked away, enthusiastically hugging his own Lovey. I figured I’d tuck Backup Lovey away and just pull him out when needed. I assumed he’d be mostly a failure, but better than nothing. I didn’t anticipate my daughter staunchly claiming him for her own. Forget the cute bunny I had bought her, forget the funny-looking doll she had dragged around the past six months, forget the multitude of other stuffed animals spilling out from the kids’ rooms. NOW SHE HAD A LOVEY JUST LIKE HER BIG BROTHER.

Two almost-exact Loveys to keep track of in one house. Two.

Why do I even try?