Last Friday we picked you up from school and went on a road trip. You were excited to drive on the freeway, since we never get to go fast. Lately you've been thinking a lot about Spiderman, and so you are full of ideas for ways that the Red Menace (our name for our Toyota RAV 4, because we are hilarious) can morph into a superhero car, either by spouting wings, or driving straight up walls, etc. etc. We were on our way to Exeter, New Hampshire for the Exeter Lit fest, a small potatoes thing that my publicist put me up for, and which I normally would have done just myself in the afternoon without bothering to stay. But instead I got us a snazzy room in the Exeter Inn. It had a suite, and it had the biggest jetted bathtub you had ever seen. After we had dinner in the restaurant, you played in the tub for something like three hours. It was epic.
The next day was trickier. You are generally a good traveler, but the weather didn't help - it's been cold and rainy for months now, as global warming has taken what used to be snow and turned it into dispiriting frigid rain. We went to an event at the library for kids as part of the lit fest, and your dad and I were joking that instead of the two children's authors just... you know... reading stories, they gave presentations on where their ideas come from, and how you get a children's book made. With Powerpoint. It was like being at a McKinsey deck presentation. "Now if you'll turn to page two in your packets, you will see that...." No, it wasn't that bad, but we did bail early and go find a playground. And then we found another playground. We romped through damp snow as a cold drizzle poured down gently upon us.
We had checked out of the inn already, so even when you started to lose it at the taqueria and were desperate for a nap there was nowhere to take you. You and your dad dropped me off at the town hall for my panel and then drove around while you snoozed.
My panel - "New England in literature" - was tiresome and boring. Partway through, while the author to my right ranted about how too many new people are streaming into Maine, I saw you and your dad sneak in the door. You left almost immediately. It turns out you left because you were so upset that I didn't come down off the dais and run over and immediately give you a hug. Which, of course, is what I wanted to do. I would always rather hug you than sit on some dumb panel about New England literature. You were so upset, though, that you were still made at me even after the panel was over and we were together again.
We dropped you at your grandparents apartment and then went to a fundraiser for Montserrat, where your Godlessfather Brian is the newly installed president. We had fun, chatting with people, we bought a cool photo at the auction, we had snacks, all was right with the world, and then we went and picked you up.
I don't know exactly when I had the sinking realization that we had made a fatal error, but I believe it was on the drive from your grandparents back to our house.
I realized that I had not seen Baby Faff since bedtime the night before.
I didn't pack Baby Faff. You are too little to remember to check for things, for the most part, and so you hadn't packed Baby Faff either. Your dad had checked the whole suite, but not *in the bed.* Baby Faff tends to get pushed down under the covers. My heart sank. We got home and I immediately hid in the bathroom to call the inn. Have you found Baby Faff? No answer. I left a message. Then I sent an email. Please please please, help, we forgot Baby Faff! I looked at you, happily romping around upstairs, and realized I had to tell you that we had left Baby Faff. The trick is, Baby Faff is pretty small. He's easy to overlook. Some stuffies are large, they contain multitudes. Baby Faff is a small secondhand beanbag with a little tail and a charmingly lopsided face. With terror I realized that Baby Faff might never come home.
I started to cry. "Charles," I said, "I have to tell you something. I made a mistake."
Your face took on a brave cast, but also started to crumple. "This is why, Mama, we have to be careful with things that we love."
"You're right," I said. "I'm so sorry." We held each other, sobbing. When your Dad arrived upstairs he was baffled to find us both weeping as though someone had died.
Of course, someone had died. Not Baby Faff, though I do "make his voice come," as you put it, and you will often discuss your day and your concerns more freely with Baby Faff than you will with just me. I was really sobbing for your babyhood. Baby Faff was with us in Puerto Rico when you turned three, our first trip after lockdown, when we all finally got COVID. He was with us in New York. He went with you and me to Houston. Baby Faff was a handmedown who arrived in a box of other giraffe stuffies from the Vermillion kids, but something about him - his smallness, his softness, who knows what - made him more special even than his Mama Faff and Daddy Faff. Maybe it's because Baby Faff is so clearly you, the object on which you can project your own worries and concerns. Recently, while watching the Toy Story where Andy is doing off to college and gives his special toys away, you informed me that Baby Faff would go to college with you.
You fell asleep and while you snored I frantically searched the internet for a simulacra of Baby Faff. I failed to identify his precise brand and make and model, or whatever the distinguishing characteristics of stuffies are. And anyway, you would have known the difference. There is only one Baby Faff. We slept that night with Manatee alone.
The next morning you and I got up early, leaving your dad to sleep, and we went to the family room to watch Spiderman. Then I sneaked to the kitchen to make coffee and call the inn again.
And - heavens be praised! THEY HAD FOUND BABY FAFF. He was safe and sound at the front desk. What time would I like to go pick him up?
Two hours round trip later, during which I listened to five chapters of a now-forgotten John P. Marquand novel, I returned, Baby Faff in hand. I think I was more relieved than you were, though you did ask Baby Faff if he had made friends with the other stuffies in the lost and found. Then we all had a nap together, exhausted by so many emotional highs and lows. When you feel asleep, Baby Faff was in your left hand.
Today there is a solar eclipse, and it is also your half birthday. You are four and one half years old. There is so little I can control for you. So little I can really safeguard, or make happen. But at least this one time, with one little well-loved baby giraffe beanbag stuffie came home for you. Some faith in the world restored.
