Like his sister before him, Henry has formed a deep and committed attachment to his blanket, or "Beebee" as they are known in our home. This is great. We are pro-security-object in our family, and perhaps the best parenting move we've made thus far was purchasing two of each of their blankets and swapping them out regularly to make sure that all of them get "seasoned" at the same rate.
At about 7 or 8 months of age, Henry made a unilateral decision to also become attached to one of his stuffed animals, a crisp white round little polar bear that was given to him by Uncle Kris and his girlfriend Laura. I understood the draw. He was soft and fluffy with a cute little face and beans in his bottom. But of all of his stuffed animals, I most certainly would not have picked a bright white one for him to adopt as the lovie that gets puked on, drooled on, sucked on, and dragged across countless floors and rugs. Needless to say, "PaBaBa," as Henry calls him, has been washed many times and looks as haggard as a thirty year meth addict.
A few weeks ago, Henry started saying that Polar Bear was broken. He would hold him up, watch as he hung limp, saggy, and grey from his hand, and state with a furrowed brow that Polar Bear was broken. Kurt had the genius idea to order a new, identical one and then "fluff up" Old Polar Bear in the dryer and exchange with New Polar Bear. We did just that, and at first, Henry seemed genuinely amazed and tickled that PaBaBa had been restored to his youthful, ripe self. He bought the switch and hugged New Polar Bear, but within 30 minutes or so, he had put New Polar Bear out of his sight and was asking for Old Polar Bear again. We tried buttering him up to New Polar Bear, but he would have none of it. By bedtime, it was clear that we'd better figure out how to "de-fluff" PaBaBa or we were all going to hear about it.
Alas. Old Polar Bear returned. Henry seems to keep him even closer than he did before, and he hasn't once stated that he looks broken.
