My daughter has a MILLION toys. Okay, not quite a million, but close. She has everything from the latest Dora's talking dollhouse to the retro squeaky pull along phone just like the one I had when I was her age. Her grandparents always make sure she lacks for nothing in her toy collection. For all their efforts, her favorite toy is a little plastic cow she found at the bottom of a box that was on its way to the trash at the farm.She takes him everywhere. He gets lost multiple times daily. He's been stabbed, almost burned, painted, colored, left out in the cold, and he's been covered in bandages (Sam's self administered first aid class) for over a month.
Bowie is what she calls the cat she sleeps with. He is pristine. He's always on her bed. She gets really upset if anyone tries to play with him (especially our little dog, Ndugu). He's been through the wash several times, but you could never tell. He's never enjoyed a pbj with her or dug in the sandbox. But try getting her to sleep without him.
I was thinking about this last night as her cow (after spending most of the day in her hand) was sitting out in the snow and she was crying for Bowie. I realized that most of my own things fell into either a "cow" or "Bowie" category. Some things I use hard and all the time. Other things I keep well and protected, only handling with clean hands when things are calm and safe. As I thought even more about it, I often keep my loved ones in these categories as well. Some share my messiest and ugliest times; they are almost always within reach. Others I keep away from the mess, protected and safe, but I love them just as much and have much difficulty sleeping at night without them in my life.
I usually feel almost guilty about the latter--like I'm not really sharing myself with this person. But maybe that's how its supposed to be. Maybe I'm not supposed to smear grape jelly on all the people in my life. Maybe.
