For my third Christmas I received a teddy bear, which I named Honey Bear. It was by far my favorite toy of my childhood, and in fact, I still have him to this day, though he now resides in a box in the basement. As an only child, my stuffed animals were my main playmates and took on unique personalities. For example, Honey Bear could talk.
Or at least that’s what my dad said. We were away on an overnight trip and I was sulking because I was not allowed to bring my prized teddy bear, because Mom feared it might get dirty or lost. Dad tried to make me feel better the next morning over breakfast by telling me he talked to Honey Bear.
I was probably four or five at the time, but already had a healthy suspicious streak. I called Dad’s bluff and told him I didn’t believe him. But Dad was insistent, saying he talked to him after I went to bed, and that they didn’t want to wake me.
I still wasn’t buying it. “How could Honey Bear reach the phone, it’s so high up on the wall,” I retorted.
“Well he just grabbed a chair and climbed up,” Dad offered up wisely.
I’m not sure if I ever bought the story completely, but that night when we got home, I rushed to my room, hugged Honey Bear to my chest and cried my little heart out. Mom and Dad even let him have a special seat at the dinner table that night.