When I was pregnant, my friends and family showered me and my future baby with gifts.
One popular gift was tiny blankets with animal heads. I had an owl, a koala, and many others I’ve forgotten. I could have never predicted how important the pink and white bunny-headed blanket would soon become to my daily life.
When my daughter was about 15 months old, she started sleeping with toys and stuffed animals. It wasn’t long before the bunny-headed blanket became her favorite.
As she got older, she would not sleep without the bunny, then she began carrying the bunny around the house as she played, and soon she asked for Bunny whenever she needed comfort.
I realized what was happening and I had a flashback to my own childhood and one of my first heartbreaks: When we left Buzz Lightyear behind at the mall.
I immediately ordered two more pink bunny lovies.
I read from experienced parents that I should rotate between Bunny and the spare bunnies so they’d all be equally worn out if I ever needed to replace one so my daughter wouldn’t notice.
At first the bunny rotation was working well. But it wasn’t long before she found the spare bunnies.
Not only did she want to sleep with all three of them, but she quickly built a bunny hierarchy — the top of which the spare bunnies will never reach. I almost felt guilty I had these innocent lovies delivered to my home only to live their lives out in the shadow of the newly christened Comfy Bunny.
Comfy Bunny has been “lost” before, but never more than one night, and usually we find her sitting outside near the sand pit or left behind in a makeshift bed on the couch. She has always managed to find her back into the loving embrace of her three-year-old keeper before bedtime creeps around.
And then, one night my daughter woke up at 1 a.m. and couldn’t find Comfy Bunny.
I pulled myself out of bed and searched the house, backyard, and car. We couldn’t find her anywhere.
The search absorbed the next day and every minute I managed to peel myself away from work. By lunchtime, I had accepted the truth. Comfy Bunny was absolutely not here.
My daughter had repeatedly, and unhelpfully, lamented “I lost Comfy Bunny” all day. I decided it was time to begin gently preparing her for the possibility that we may never find Comfy Bunny.
I told her, “we’re still looking for your bunny.” I stroked her hair and softly continued, “But we might not find her.”
She was genuinely confused. She asked, “Why?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“I’ll never stop looking for Comfy Bunny. But if we can’t find her, you might have to sleep with one of her cousin bunnies instead.”
She was too sad to indulge her toddler dramatics, and simply looked down quietly.
I’ve only been a mom for three years, but I think my least favorite part about being a mom is having to help my little human learn “how the world works.” I desperately wish she could have every single thing she ever wants and that she could always count on me to hold her and kiss away whatever is wrong.
I resigned myself to the fact that losing Comfy Bunny was an incoming life lesson for my daughter. I realized how my mom must have felt when she had to tell me Buzz Lightyear was gone and not coming back.
I began planning the right way to explain to my baby that her Comfy Bunny wasn’t coming home. It broke my heart.
I was deep in thought as I prepared for a dentist appointment and walked into the garage, toward my car.
And then I saw her. Comfy Bunny was casually sitting atop the folded up stroller. It was clear she had been hastily set down and quickly forgotten in the shuffle of whatever chaos was happening.
I rolled my eyes, scooped her up, and ran up the stairs to my sweet girl’s bright smile.
Life lesson averted for now.
