Love your Fuzz Off

This photo was taken by a photographer from Chicago who has an amazing site...check it out.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/chicagoeye/ When I saw it, I was at first shocked and horrified. I thought of those 'Chucky' dolls from the 80's movies. I admit, I never watched them because I just KNEW they'd give me nightmares. Lee's caption to this photo explains that these dolls belong to his daughters. That took away some of the horror.

When you realize that they got this way because of LOVE, it makes it a little better. Okay- maybe their brother had something to do with the eyes, but when something endures a lifetime of hugging, kissing, tea parties, hospital visits, trips to the unknown and all the other 'duties' of a comfort object, it starts to show. What little girl didn't have a doll whose hair was either missing or in an impossible knot on top of her head from being drug around by the 'caveman' child who owned her?

For me it was 'Bluey'. It's funny...I didn't know how to spell it. I never had to put his name in print before. He (why did I attach a male gender to it too?) was there for me. All throughout my childhood, he was a part of my life. I took him everywhere, and he always made it all better. He was nothing more than a blue piece of thermal material with satin around his outside, but he couldn't have been more important to my growing up years.

At age 5 or so, my mother decided that Bluey was too hard to keep track of when we traveled to various relative's homes, so she decided to divide him up and give each household a piece so I would never be without. She sneakily executed this procedure long after she thought I was asleep, but I walked in on her and with all of my 5 year old drama announced , "You've murdered Bluey!" There she sat, scissors in hand, unable to deny her crime. I was devastated.

I had big plans for Bluey. He would adorn the kitchen curtain rod when I got older. I was going to have a valance made out of him so I wouldn't face the ridicule of those who might think it was childish to hang onto something such as that. I hadn't ironed out the details of how I was going to hide the fact that he had his fuzz all loved off, and was, in fact, worn right through in areas, but those were minor details. He wasn't blue any more since my mother had washed him so many times his color had faded to practically white. My main concern is that he would never be away from me.

My mother had just ended that dream. With a few swipes of the butchering shears, I no longer had my friend. Oh- I had pieces of him, but what was one little hunk compared to the full body armor he provided me in times of trouble?

If I were the type to seek psychological counseling, I might also sight the example of Mrs. Matooga. I don't remember her well, just that she was an old friend of my grandmother who thought that Bluey and thumb sucking were WAY outdated for a child my age. She tortured me by actually trying to take Bluey from me and telling me that my stomach would rot if I continued to suck my thumb. The tug of war she engaged in with me, and her harsh, spitty words have scarred me for life. I would seek refuge behind the big chair in Grandma's living room when she was around. I've never gotten over it.

Some people appreciate the importance of things such as these. My maternal grandfather was one of them. Until his death, he kept my piece of Bluey that had been designated to his home, and after his death, my grandmother framed it with a poem. I carried my own piece as my 'something blue' for my wedding to John 7 years ago. He was tolerant of that seemingly childish act. Just the other day, I pulled out my piece and held it to my face and was immersed in years of memories, love, tragedies avoided and comfort.

We all need physical comfort in some form. For me it was Bluey. For Lee's girls, it may have been those well worn dolls. To the outside eye, they are gross and hideous, and may even smell, but to the ones who love them, they are a lifetime of memories and love. In my struggle to convince myself that inner beauty is the most important, I try to remember to see myself as those who love me see me. They dont' see my battle wounds and scars. They see who I have been to them. They love me as God loves me. Thank goodness!