My teddy is older than me, a gift from my grandfather at my birth. When I was old enough to give names, I named him Toughy because he was my tough defender against the monsters in my closet. When I got a little older and more precocious, I gave him a surname, Ursa, and the military title, Major. Get it?
While I no longer need protection from monsters, at least the kind of monsters I imagined in childhood and the protection that Toughy offered, there are perfectly rational reasons for my continuing to sleep with the Toughster. You’ll remember from my “Heritage” post that I feel little connection to my ancestry. Toughy is a tangible link to familial ties. I’ve always felt cheated that I never knew my grandfathers. One died before I was born and the one who gave me Toughy died when I was too young to have any memories of him. But Toughy reminds me that he was invested in my life.
Not only does he make me think of my ancestor, he has borne witness to my life since birth. Toughy knows more about me than anyone, so it’s good that he can’t talk. As a child, I could tell him my secrets, articulating my fears. He offered comfort when I cried in my room, too stoic to show those emotions to people. Now that I’m an adult he serves a more utilitarian purpose as a kind of pillow to prop my top arm on when I sleep on my side. Still, even if I eventually find a man to serve that purpose (and, no, I don’t view men as body pillows), Toughy will still be a part of my household. He will never be donated to Goodwill or sold at a garage sale.
It’s not the stuffed animal itself. He’s not a security blanket. I don’t need him to fall asleep. He doesn’t travel with me. It’s what Toughy represents. He is a kind of totem, a symbol of my life’s history, the ultimate souvenir of all my experiences. So you can think I’m weird for having a bear on my bed, but I don’t care; Toughy’s staying.