How does one teddy become The One? How does he go from teddy to Teddy?
Is it the way his fur tumbles into his eyes? His slightly sad and bereft expression? Is it his smell—does he just beg to be scrunched up to a slobbery little face and inhaled? Does he seem somehow more real than the countless other stuffed candidates lined up for the job?
Whatever the reason, Oliver chose his Teddy two days ago suddenly and fiercely. He calls for Teddy anxiously when he’s gone missing (“de-DEH!”). He’s branded Teddy with an avocado french kiss. He crawls with Teddy clenched in one fist, dragging him facedown across the floor. Today he pitched Teddy out of the stroller just so he could say “uh-oh!’ with pretend surprise. Teddy felt the stroller wheels—at least two of them—before I could rescue him (and place him right back with his loving tormentor). Teddy then played with Oliver in the park, which for Teddy meant a lot of sand sandwiches and not much else. Teddy is already looking ragged after a two-day reign.
But I know he’s happy. This is the fate every stuffed animal dreams of. Every blight, every ground-in clump of dirt, every tear and new deformity, all these are badges of honor. To be loved hard is the lot of every Teddy.
