So, I have a lot of stuffies. Not like scary amounts, because I got rid of most of the ones I’d been carting around since childhood, but I still have the ones that are super special…the one I got from my first boyfriend at our 3rd grade school carnival, the one my dad bought the day I was born, the bear from a man I loved and lost because our timing was so very wrong, the one my husband got me when we moved in together, the one from my *mumble* milestone birthday, my halloween cat from my fairy gothchild, and so on. Well, one of these stuffies is a very old, very battered kitty cat that my friend Colin got me…probably 20-25 years ago. Colin killed himself in the early 90’s…and so, the kitty cat means a lot to me.
Last night, the boy was running a fever above 102. He was fussy, and cranky, and miserable. He wanted Colin Kitty. He said it would make him feel better. Well, it made me feel better for a long time, so I said, “Ok sweetie, here ya go…but please be very careful, Mommy really loves this kitty.” And he carried the kitty around all last night, and then this morning, he was carrying the kitty while I was putting new essential oils away in the soap room when I heard him say “Oops!”.
“Oops” is never a sound that can mean anything good when it involves a small child. So I looked out of the room and there he was, with the kitty behind his back. And I said “What oops?”, to which he replied, “Um…I took off kitty’s eyes.” And he presented me with eyeless cat in one hand, and eyes in the other.
Now, despite the fact that this is an easily fixed problem, for some reason, I just started crying. Like…sobbing. Which, I’m fully aware doesn’t make much sense. I blame hormones. Damn hormones.
Epilogue: Colin kitty has been repaired, and restored to his rightful spot on top of the dresser. The boy is back to being Fusticus Spectacularis, which really has more to do with being sick and trapped in the house than anything else. Me…I’d like a nap.