Beanie Bear

by Thomas M. Pender

I am a sentimental hoarder of memorabilia by nature.  It would be hard for me to throw away an illegible scrap of paper if my grandfather had given it to me as a child.  In keeping with this pattern, there are items here and there that my sons have given me which I know I will probably have until the day I die.  One such item is a nondescript five-inch-tall bear-shaped cloth beanbag doll.

When my youngest, John Christian, was probably only three, he loved when I came to visit him and his brothers.  He liked to run around in the yard with me or sit in my lap and watch his cartoons or show me a new toy he’d gotten.  I’m still amazed when I recall that at that age, he could beat his older brothers at one particular video game while hardly looking at the screen.  It didn’t matter to either of us what we did during our time together, as long as we were together.

A year earlier, a two-year-old Johnny started to protest whenever I would announce that I had to leave their house.  He would moan “Noooooo” like his older brother Garrett used to, or hug me and not let go, and a few times, he would physically block my exit.  This was a very special message to me, which obviously did not go unnoticed.  My son loved me and he knew I loved him.  Our times together were too short and far between, and he tried anything he could think of to extend my presence in his life, and his in mine.

One particular day, after getting through John’s body blockade and making it out of the house, I heard him calling after me.  He burst through the door, and ran to me, waving something in his hand.

“This is for you,” he said, pushing something soft into my hands.

The bear hardly had a face to speak of, but I could tell it was something his mother had gotten him.  I knew what Johnny was saying to me, even beyond his vocabulary at the time.  This simple doll was a greeting card to take with me.  “I miss you, Daddy, and I don’t want you to forget me while we’re apart.  Take this bear and think of me when you see it.”

Hard as it was to push it back in his direction, I was forced to say, “No, Johnny, your mom gave you that.  She wouldn’t like you giving it away.”

This child got the most serious adult-looking face I’d ever seen on him, looked me in the eye, and said, “I want you to have it.”

My son’s wish to extend our bond was immediately more important than anything else.  It wasn’t just a rag doll anymore.  This was my child doing all he could do to come with me and stay with me.

John turns seven on the day this column posts.  I have seen him even less often over the past two years than I did when he was three.  In my mission to not commute 100 miles to any given job, I have moved three times since the day he gave me the beanie bear.  It’s still with me, though.  It still sits on my dresser, looks at me every morning, and in my head and heart, it says in my three-year-old son Johnny’s voice, “I love you and I miss you, Daddy.”  Until the day the seams pull themselves apart with age and the beans spill out, I don’t see myself separating from this doll.  Even then, I see myself keeping the skin of it.  The message and the meaning are too great and too deep for me to leave it behind.

Happy birthday, “Mini Me.”  Daddy loves you, too.