This is the story of…PINK BABY, or as she prefers to go by for short, Pinky. It all began when my momma was pregnant with my brother. My grandma was pretty set on her having a girl, since there was a female baby drought in the Myrland family for some years. Low and behold, my brother Brett popped out. Damn. She had even bought this cute, fuzzy, pink bear stuffed animal in preparation. And so, Pinky began her life sitting idle waiting for a girl to love her. Unfortunately for her, I was that child. Let’s put it this way, her life has not been easy.
Pinky at the ripe age of 24; things could definitely be better
Most child psychologists consider it quite within the realm of what is “normal” for a child to form a strong attachment to an object between the years of 3-12, which is comforting to know considering my once death-grip-obsession with Pinky. Here I will outline the difficult times that have befallen the poor bear throughout her time with me:
1) Prior to me forming memories I decided to chew her plastic nose clean off of her face. Hence, the fact that she is now easily mistaken for a stuffed pig rather than a bear.
2) There was once a mouth involved in this mess as well, I believe of the red string variety. It was no match for me and was quickly done away with. Now, one can only guess what type of expression she wishes to make, I like to believe it is a smile, but her appearance is most likely evidence to the contrary.
3) Probably the biggest moment of this bear’s life was the time that she was run over by a city bus. Left on the spare tire of my dad’s blazer, off we drove until-OH *$&#! PINKY! Well, after gutter searching I ended up with a one-eyed, no-nosed, missing-mouthed bear. As I was afraid of her newly mangled appearance my dad, being the engineer that he is, constructed a neoprene patch for her eye. Things were definitely getting out of hand at this point. Good thing I was nearly ready to break the ties and venture out on my own, sans Pinky forever.
Of course there were other mishaps along the way, including numerous toilet swims, a trip to the bathtub inside of a Tupperware container (a form of stuffed animal SCUBA), and mean brothers taking her as a hostage, but all in all she was pretty much one busted bear.
I found her recently as I was moving and felt that urge to just pitch her as I was in “wow, I have too much shit and should get rid of some” mode, but I came to my senses quickly enough. My childhood was definitely awesome, and I had no need to utilize a stuffed bear as a coping mechanism, but somehow she just made everything better, whole, and ok no matter what. Injuries weren’t so bad once I was clinging to her, movies not so scary, sleepless nights not so lonely. Even the good things were made better by having a compatriot to join in on my imaginary games and adventures. With all the crap I put that thing through she now looks like a mostly brown, slightly pink-tinted, matted pile of fur, but for some crazy reason I still feel a few threads of attachment and memories of what she meant to me before real life really began and I had a reason to worry, know what day it is, and put aside fun for responsibility.
I would say that I will give her to my daughter one day, but that probably wouldn’t be smart. She would likely either contract a disease or be scared to death, so she will just have to remain on my shelf until something even more horrifying comes her way.
RIP Pinky
Off the Front 