Little Lamb

I remember when I figured it out. I had just brushed my teeth and was absentmindedly swishing out my mouth with water. Something about feeling clean and fresh made my mind wander to the incident years before. That’s when it hit me. I spit out the water.

“Hey,” I said to the empty bathroom. And then, “Wait a minute.” I laughed. How had it taken me this long to realize?

My mom had lied to me about Hockey.

Hockey is a Baby B’Gosh lamb. A baby shower gift to my mom, he was my very first stuffed animal. When I was little, Hockey went everywhere with me. He sat next to me in my car seat, buckled in for safety. I let him ride the conveyor belt at the grocery store when my mom wasn’t looking. We even met the Easter bunny together.

Hockey was covered in pastel pictures of snails, stars, and fish. They were hard to see, though, because most of them had dulled with time and wear. This was not the only sign of how well-loved Hockey was. The white cotton fur on his head was patchy. His black, plastic eyes were cracked and chipped, largely because I liked to bang his head against the dryer for the satisfying clack. I rubbed his fuzzy face so much that parts of it split open. I loved Hockey literally to pieces. He was more than a stuffed animal. He was a friend.

But one day, our friendship was threatened. I was six years old. Hockey had come with me and my mom to the mall. I had always done a good job holding Hockey’s paw when we walked together. But somewhere amidst the mall’s glassy storefronts and fake potted ferns, I lost him.

My mom knew how important Hockey was to me. So, we retraced our steps. Did I set him down in the shoe store while I was trying on light-up sneakers? Did I drop him by the kiosk selling hermit crabs with painted shells? We went back to those places. We checked lost and found. But it was no use. It was as if Hockey had slipped not just out of my hand, but out of the entire flow of time and space. He was gone.

“Don’t worry,” my mom said. “He’ll find his way home.” We left the mall without Hockey, and I hoped my mom was right. I had a restless night’s sleep. Usually, Hockey slept within arm’s reach. I felt guilty that I’d let him go, and scared that I’d never see him again.

But the next day, my mom had good news. An employee at a beauty store had found Hockey and sent him back to me. They’d even given him a makeover. That’s why he looked so fresh and new, my mom explained. It was like I had never banged his head against the dryer or rubbed apart his face. I could see all his colorful little snails, stars, and fish.

He looked better, I had to admit. But part of me wished the beauty store had left him as he was. I couldn’t be too picky, though. Even though he looked a little different, he was still Hockey. And soon enough, he was back to his well-loved self.

Years later, after my realization while toothbrushing, I asked my mom about Hockey’s visit to the “beauty store.” She admitted that after seeing how much I loved the original Hockey, she’d bought another just in case. She’d made up the beauty store tale so I wouldn’t be sad.

I still laugh when I imagine a mall employee finding Hockey, sitting him down in a little beauty parlor chair, and magically making him new again. And I smile for the little girl who was eager to believe that story. The well-worn Hockey sitting on my shelf today is not the same one I left at the mall. Does it matter? No. He is Hockey, through and through.