I had a room filled with stuffed toys, when I was a child. I always loved animals and my parents were wonderful about it. They allowed me to keep rabbits, chickens, dogs and birds in our little yard.
When I was six, I was hospitalized for a short time. They put a plastic bubble around my bed and pumped oxygen in. My Mom brought all my stuffed animals in and lined them around the tent to keep me company.
I told my Dad that I wanted a giraffe so he searched for days until he found a two-foot tall, green giraffe with black spots. I named him spotty and adored him. I hugged him so hard and so often, that I bent his neck in half. When Spotty stood on his feel his head hit the floor.
When I moved away from home, I put him in a box with two other stuffed animals that I cherished; the Daniel Striped Tiger, from Mr. Rogers Neighborhood, and a little bear my brother gave me. I planned to give to my own child one day.
And I did just that. I fixed Spotty’s neck, gave them all baths and offered them to my little one year old. He never liked or played with any of them. They were old and a little smelly and terribly boring.
Whenever we played a game he would hand me my three toys and say, “Here are your favorites.”
“We do not know the true value of our moments until they have undergone the test of memory.”~ Georges Duhamel
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