As a child, I had many stuffed animals—dogs, cats, elephants, cows—you name it. My collection seemed endless. Now, though, I can’t quite grasp the fascination with them; they feel almost useless in day-to-day life. But I suppose, if I allowed myself to, I could understand it.
When I was around six years old, I received a new plush toy: a small cat with black spots and one big pink spot around its ear. Its eyes stared back at me, glittering with pink irises, and its mouth was fixed in a permanent smirk. With its oversized head and tiny body, I squealed in delight, finding the little thing irresistibly cute. I held it close to my chest, grinning at both of my parents and the decorated Christmas tree behind them. From that moment on, it became my child. I named her Muffin, and I designated Christmas Day as her "birth" day.
For months, Muffin was my favorite toy. She accompanied me to sleepovers, sat at the dinner table, and had her own designated spot on my pillow at night. I kept her in good condition, insisting she be washed regularly—if she got dirty, I’d clean her immediately, and if she didn’t, I’d wash her anyway, once a week without fail. It became a sort of ritual, and my parents didn’t mind; they thought it was building my "work ethic." Of course, I loved my other stuffed animals too, but none as much as Muffin.
It’s interesting how time changes things, even my stuffed animals. Over the years, most of them were handed down to my little cousins or taken by my younger sister. But a few remained: a rabbit, a snow tiger, a regular teddy bear, and Muffin. Yet, the oddest thing happened. No longer did my stuffed animals sleep with me, join me at the dinner table, or come along to sleepovers. Instead, they were relegated to a shelf in my room, lined up neatly alongside old photos, birthday cards, CDs, guitar picks, a tin cookie box filled with sewing materials, and a framed Claude Monet painting—printed on card stock, of course.
Now, Muffin sits on that shelf, collecting dust as the sun rises and sets. Unlike the sewing box or the CDs, I haven’t touched any of my stuffed animals in years. They’ve become like ornaments on a Christmas tree—seasonal at best, but permanently perched there, year-round. Muffin has transformed into a piece of nostalgia, a memento of my childhood.
Maybe someday, I’ll pick her up and give her a wash. Then, perhaps, she’ll rest with me again, tucked into her own little spot on my pillow. I could probably learn to love her again, just like I used to.