A major tragedy was averted this morning, and by a major tragedy i mean me having a complete and total mental breakdown. It will not seem so big to you, but it was big to me. Dan and i were walking down the stairs to take Rascal for a walk, when rounding the halway into the puppy room i spied the tell-tale sign of stuffing trailing along the floor. Then i saw it, pink and limp in the middle of the pile... my Bami.
If you haven't known me for the past 25 years, you have little idea how important my Bami is to me. Bami is a small stuffed lamb who was given me when i was born. I have slept with Bami almost every night since then: Bami came with me to sleepovers, and to college, and to Israel, and to France. When i went to college, i originally feared that there would come a time when i would have to give up sleeping with a stuffed animal. I have long since gotten over the idea that i will ever be that "mature." Fortunately, i managed to marry a man who finds it perfectly natural that i still like to sleep with a stuffed sheep.
I read once (probobly in intro Psyche) that it is a trait of highly intelligent children that they attribute human characteristics to inanimate objects. I don't know what it means when you still treat your doll like a person at 25 years old. Probobly a sign of mental retardation. Anyway, i have often told Dan that if there was a fire in our house and we had to run out with what we could grab, the first thing i would grab would be Bami. Bami is more important to me than my wallet or my check-book or my seven-thousand-dollar necklace. Without Bami i may never be able to sleep again.
So you can imagine my reaction when i saw Bami, torn amidst a pile of stuffing. I did what any sensible adult would do, i collapsed sobbing. Thankfully Dan, with the presence of mind of a true parent, picked up the tufts of stuffing and started to fill up Bami's limp little body. Dan came through when my grief was unbearable. Rascal had torn between Bami's head and neck, and half the face was ripped. Bami's eyes were gone... somewhere in Rascal's belly.
Dan saved the day by kicking Rascal out of the scene and stuffing Bami back up. Puffed up again, Bami didn't look quite so bad. Then i could calm down enough to carefully sew his head back to his neck. The fact that he was still hugable and in one piece soothed me very much, and then there was just the issue of the torn muzzle and missing eyes. Wanting to see his baby happy again, Dan drove me to Joanne fabrics, where we found two new plastic eyes and some fur fabric to patch Bami's face. After only two hours, Bami was as good as new. His face looks a little different now, with a white patch on his pink muzzle, but he's still my Bami and i still love him with the irrationality of an overemotional child.
In the car over to the fabric store, i began to wonder if there really is something wrong with me, if i really am retarded for caring about a stuffed animal this much. After some point, aren't you supposed to leave off the silly sleep aids of your childhood? And choose adult ones like Lunesta?
There is one consolation: If i am totally bat-ass crazy, at least it's not a new thing. I have always been childish and protective of my little Bami, at the same time as i am confident and effective in my business life. So, i guess i see no compelling reason to change. As long as i can remember to put Bami on a high shelf when i wake up, and as long as i have my Danny to take care of me.