Love Lessons from Teddy, Stuffed Bear Extraordinaire
My teddy, named Teddy, is a very important bear; he has been more influential than a stuffed animal should be. He has taught me lessons of life and love as no other inanimate object could.

Through college, I tucked him away, too embarrassed that I was still attached to a stuffed animal. Now I consider my attachment a sign of good character — sentimentality, kind-heartedness, prolonged innocence.
Growing up, I had over 100 dolls. A top bunk inhabitant, I lined them all up against the gates around my bed, sometimes three-deep. I left just enough space for a sarcophagus-esque slumber.
These animals had very distinct personalities, complex relationships. It was a flourishing community. Whole families of dolls would intermingle on my bed, playing out dramas worthy of their own television shows — or at least I thought so.
Building the worlds I created for these dolls was a huge comfort to me. Even when going on vacation, I would fill my Jansport backpack to near-ripping with stuffed animals. Fellow travelers would tell Mom how cute I was, praising my healthy creative outlet. While my siblings read or played video games, I invented stories for my dolls. They were my people. I couldn’t vacation without my people.

It was on vacation in middle school that I first met Teddy. Our party of seven waited for food in a fancy restaurant in Yosemite National Park. My sister, Tricia, was telling us about a stuffed-bear she had fallen in love with in the gift store. Longtime National Park goers, we assured Tricia that she would be able to find the bear in a gift store down the road; all these gift stores carried the same stuff.
Tricia, an avid rule-follower who often requires unanimous support by way of permission, was amidst a tragic love affair and quickly becoming upset. And so I got up from the table to shop with her. An enthusiastic enabler, I agreed to buy something for myself if she bought the white bear she loved.
I picked up a brown bear with sand-filled bum. He’ll do, I thought.
I wasn’t enthusiastic. As I showed everyone at dinner the bear I had bought, I felt slightly regretful. This bear was a risky investment. As I said, Teddy had 100 other stuffed animals with whom he must compete for my affection. I wasn’t hopeful. Poor bear was likely to remain lonely.
As it was, I was falling out of love with many of my stuffed animals. I was beginning to realize I was hanging onto many of them out of guilt, not love. Even as an adult, I can’t look at stuffed animals without wondering if they have something beneath their button eyes. I must have read The Velveteen Rabbit when I was too young. Toy Story 3 left me sobbing in the theatre.
When I had literally hundreds of stuffed animals, I felt that they were all my responsibility; I couldn’t possibly love them all enough. Eventually, out of guilt, I couldn’t look at them anymore. I stopped arranging all 100+ animals on my bed, instead leaving most in a huge pile between the wall and my bunkbed.
Somehow Teddy stayed. He replaced all my animals of more sentimental value. He became my most-loved-bear. Still is. I can’t remember it happening or why. Maybe he fit best under my arm while I drifted off to sleep. Maybe I liked his sand-filled bum and the way his fur covered his eyes. Maybe it was timing — it’s always timing, isn’t it?
Fifteen years later, this tear-soaked, sweat-matted stuffed bear is my most-loved possession. I have gold. I have diamonds. I have fine Italian leather. I love Teddy most. Which is great if you think about it; if my apartment ever got ransacked, nobody is going to take that wrecked bear.
And he is wrecked, wrecked in the best possible way. He is wrecked from too much loving.
Teddy has been with me through situations I could never have predicted. Yes, I questioned his ROI as I walked out of that National Park gift shop. How could I have known how comforting his presence would be through the 25+ moves I experienced since leaving home for college? He was there through all that comes with growing up; the heartbreak, the joy, the terror, the euphoria.
People have come into my life, very important people. Uninvited, unknowing, some of my most important people have waltzed into my life, their entrance feeling out of my control. Just like my little brown bear. I bought Teddy out of the love for my sister. Inexplicably, he became most-loved-bear and, arguably, way more important to me than any inanimate object should ever be..
Someday Teddy’s life will be over. It’ll be some freak accident, 100 times more catastrophic than the times I open the washing machine and see his little bear face, crushed by the super-duty cycle intended for my bedding. Poor little bear.
When his little bear life is over, I’ll be devastated. Yet, I’ll also be happy that Teddy lived the life coveted by stuffed bears everywhere. He remained adored way past adolescence. He remained adored until he was literally loved to death.
What a way to go!
If by the end of this life, my stuffing is ripping from my seams from too many hugs, well, I’ll leave this world as I should, like Teddy — loved to death.
Someday my love will wreck Teddy. But then, I don’t know a more beloved bear. Like Teddy, may I always be accepting of the love that wrecks me.

