Every night before bed, I tucked each one of my stuffed animals under the covers next to me. First Lola, the light pink lamb my parents gave to me at birth, then Beary, the typical brown teddy bear every child had, then a random assortment of cheaply made animals I won at a carnival and refused to get rid of, and lastly Hearty, a large, pink heart-shaped-pillow that lay underneath my head for support. Some of these had meaning, but most of them were only there to fill the empty space in my bed.
The first time I spotted Toby was when I was four years old. He sat on my parents’ dresser, too far from my reach. Every once in awhile, I would be a rebellious toddler and push the bench from the end of their bed over to the dresser, climb up, and grab him. He was made of a material that was cold to the touch, but a comforting type of cold, one that made me feel warm inside. For the short moment I was up on the bench, I would squeeze him really tight to take away the coldness, straighten up the perfect white bow tied around his neck, and leave him in his original sitting position on the top of the dresser. His face was fairly simple,with two black embroidered eyes and nose. Though he was only the size of my now fully grown palm, one could spot his vibrant green fur and perky ears from across the room. Knowing this was a gift my dad gave to my mom when my older brother was born, I was always anxious I would get sent to my room if I was caught in what appeared to be stealing.
I would always keep my eye on Toby when I walked through my parents’ room to take my daily shower. Sometimes I felt like I was the only one in the house who gave him any attention. As a child who loved stuffed animals, I couldn’t help but question why my parents had one just sitting there. Why didn’t they bring him in bed with them? I learned later that month that my admiration for this little bear did not go unnoticed.
My mom walked into my room at 7:30 p.m. for our routine goodnight hug and tuck in. Then she kissed my forehead and placed Toby by my side.
“Night Hales,” she whispered while flicking off my light switch.
Soon she was out of the room. I turned on my nightlight in excitement and threw all my other stuffed animals off the bed and into the corner of the room, even Lola and Hearty, because now I had the one I had long hoped for. Soon Toby was in my hands and I was unable to let him go. I threw my body halfway off of my bed to flick off the nightlight and went to bed with my new best friend.
Every morning after that, I would wake up and place Toby at the very top of my unmade bed. On the occasion I wasn’t in a rush, I would sit him up against the headboard with a teacup full of water from my American Girl Doll picnic set. Though I felt bad leaving him alone most of the day, I hoped my cup of water would occupy him just enough until I got back. On the bright side, he finally had a change in scenery. Instead of my parents’ boring green walls and cream-colored sheets, he now saw my pale yellow walls and off-white sheets with a vibrant flower pattern. That was much more interesting in my opinion. Before leaving, I made sure to put my dolls and Build-A-Bear animals in charge of him, as they were much more experienced with the layout of my room. Soon enough, Toby came just about anywhere around the house with me. He would come downstairs when it was play time, into the kitchen when we needed to eat, upstairs when it was brushing teeth time, and back to bed when it was time to go to sleep. The only time my parents would let me take him out of the house was when I had to go to the doctor for a shot or went to a friend’s house for a sleepover. Other than that, they thought I would lose him.
Ever since I was the age I first got Toby, my family and I would go to a nearby restaurant called Route 22. My brother, Max, and I would always order the kids chicken fingers and fries (emphasis on the kids) because the food came in a cardboard racecar that you could take home after your meal. Max and I would eat as quickly as we could, run back to the car to get home as fast as possible, and immediately clean out our new cars for our stuffed animals. Of course, Toby always had dibs on my cars; he practically had a whole garage full.
Looking back, I think the reason I loved Toby so much was that he reminded me of my family. In 4th grade, when I had my first sleepover, Toby was tucked inside my hot pink duffel bag ready to join me on my adventure. Though one night away from home seems fairly insignificant now, it was everything when I was nine years old. At one point in the night when I felt nervous about being away from home, I took Toby from my bag and held him firmly in the palm of my hand. Suddenly things didn’t seem so scary anymore.
Toby still sits on my bed, but the view is different. I no longer set him up on my pillows. Now I wake up and he lies tangled up somewhere in my comforter, usually unable to be seen. In fact, the only time he sees daylight is when my mom caves in and makes my bed for me. Before he ends up back under my covers, he sees my now pale blue-gray walls, plain white bed sheets, and all white furniture. Everything is fairly bland, but I have begun to enjoy the simplicity.
Not only has Toby relocated, but he appears a different bear. He is now a washed-out, pale green color and threads are coming loose from all over his body. A large hole in his right armpit occasionally releases a small clear filler bead. His little white bow is so far from perfect, I occasionally think about snipping it off but then realize it could take away from his charm.
In less than six months, Toby will be sitting in a room with bland white walls, worn-out wooden furniture, a bed that has been used by who knows how many people, and another person. He will no longer have my mom to occasionally make my bed and put him up on a pillow pedestal, but maybe it’s time I take that responsibility into my own hands. Either way, he will be thrown somewhere in the sheets because it’s better than sitting alone on my parents’ dresser. I truly don’t know what I saw in Toby at four years old, and though it may seem that he is beginning to fade away and lose importance, that is far from the truth. Toby is still just as significant as he was thirteen years ago, just in a different way. Maybe just knowing his presence is there brings me comfort, as I no longer feel the need to set him up in cardboard box cars and give him a teacup full of water. Despite the fact that Toby started out as a gift to my mom, he really became a gift to me, a special token of love that reminds me of my life through the years.