Toy Story Story

photo stolen from https://www.ebay.com/itm/304663195481

Toy Story Story, by Julie Elias Bird

 

                 "Somewhere in that pad of stuffing is a toy who taught me that life's only worth living if you're being loved by a kid" –Toy Story II

 

            In thinking about upcoming Christmas shopping, I began musing on past Christmases—gifts I have received and gifts I have given to others. My oldest daughter, Georgia, good-naturedly accuses me of having given her all of the boring, intellectual gifts, while her younger sisters got “fun” gifts. I do recall a Christmas when she tore open the wrapping paper to reveal a globe of the world, and her sister next to her opened a Cinderella Horse & Carriage. Oh my! Was I THAT mom?? I don’t deserve to ever live that one down.

            She did get her share of good stuff all in all; at least I hope she did. Not all of our most prized gifts come from Christmas. In fact, they seem to show up as they wish. Much like Toy Story, unforgettable toys enter our lives and grab onto us the way “the wand chooses the wizard.” I remember when Georgia was maybe 18 months old; she had a bedroom full of stuffed animals and loved them all. One spring day, however, we were out walking at our local mall, and she spied a large, chocolate colored, velvety Russ® bear, which was almost as big as she was. Actually it was a pyramid of them, all stacked up. But there was ONE in that stack that spoke to her. She hopped out of her stroller and began to pull it out of the middle of the pyramid. Would she consider one from the top so that the pyramid wouldn’t collapse? She took a long hard look at the one I handed to her (I had no prior intention of buying one, mind you). Nope. Not the same. Not the same at all. She handed it back to me and proceeded to continue her work of rescuing that original bear that had made eye contact with her. I held up the rest of the stack of identical bears, while she performed her EMS duties and saved this particular bear’s life. Toddling back to her stroller, they snuggled in together. “My Brown Bear,” she stated with satisfaction. I remember helplessly looking at the clerk when Georgia would not allow her to scan Brown Bear’s price tag. From that day on, Brown Bear & Georgia were as inseparable as Andy and Woody, and never spent a night apart, until she went to band camp in the 7^th grade. Twenty six years later, Brown Bear lives with her still, safely up on a shelf in her apartment.

            My own experience with toys has definite Toy Story parallels. Andy had Woody the Cowboy. I had Woody the Woodpecker. Andy’s Woody would declare, “REEEEEACH for the sky!” when his string was pulled. Woody Woodpecker would triumphantly shout “TIMBERRRRRR! Time for lunch!” I was four years old when Woody came into my life. Although I would go on to have lots of other toys and stuffed animals throughout my childhood career, Woody was my best toy and closest confidant. He was just the right size to fit under my little arm, and light enough to drag anywhere. His “pajamas” were bright blue corduroy with that token white bib, just like the Woody Woodpecker in the cartoons. His mitten hands were white felt-covered and his feet were orangey gold, also of felt. His beak was a plastic-rubber texture that matched the color of his feet, and his blue eyes were painted onto his plastic-rubber head, out of the top of which sprang his red felt “pileum” which looked more like a rooster’s comb than the crest of a pileated woodpecker. 

At bedtime I would hold his little corduroy self against my cheek and fall asleep. He went with me everywhere. Yes, there was that time when Dad had to turn around and drive 50 miles back to the rest area where I had left him on a picnic table. He eventually became the favorite toy of my younger cousin when she would come over to visit. It was the most selfless thing I had ever done, the day I finally gave him to her for good. My aunt lovingly mended his worn-out hands and feet and he began his new life with a new family. If I’m not mistaken, my cousin saved him for her own kids years later.

            My favorite “toy story” may be that of my youngest daughter, Renée, who had a stuffed bear. Well, the bear was just a head and arms and the body consisted of a silky blanket (she called it “his dress”). His name was Lovey Bear, and of course, he had to go with her wherever adventures would lead. He once spent an entire two weeks at the local library, which was devastating for her. He, on the other hand, apparently had a blast, because when the library called to ask us if we were the ones who had left him at Children’s Story Hour, (and we hurried straightaway to retrieve him), the librarian had all sorts of tales of intrigue for my daughter about his escapades while he was away. Lovey Bear had visited Wonderland, and then had eaten lunch with Little Red Riding Hood and had scared the Big Bad Wolf away! Renée looked from Lovey Bear to the librarian and back, her eyes as big as saucers.      

            Lovey Bear was notorious for hiding at her grandparents’ house just when Renee had to go home for the evening. Midnight trips back to Grandma’s for him were a regular business, and I swear I could see the grin on his fluffy little face after I would groggily drive to pick him up in my pajamas and robe. Finally I went out and bought a second Lovey Bear to keep at Grandma’s house (clever me). When Renée would hop into the car with him, I would find a way for him to get left there, while she went inside the house and played with what she thought was her original Lovey Bear. Surprisingly Renée did not catch on for a while, and when she finally did, instead of being angry about it, she cried with delight, “I’ve got TWO Lovey Bears!” And of course, that dynamic duo remained together, committing all manner of capers, under the same roof from then on, (one being renamed Stinky Bear, and the other Naughty Bear)—like Woody and Buzz Lightyear, loved by a kid.

Wishing you all a happy and magical Christmas shopping season!