A rant about child-rearing and (faux?) fuzzy animals

This article makes me very sad. Alas, it's not what the hella in a ha-ha way ... but the premise behind this smug New York cosmopolitan writer's article makes me grit my teeth and mutter those three immortal words (and other, less family-friendly ones) to myself nonetheless.

As a child, I had a definite love affair with stuffed animals. I had, by the time I was 9 and moved overseas to China, amassed a collection of every imaginable species, which overflowed my queen-sized bed, my window seat, and one of those child-sized cottage playhouses so you literally could not see the floor. My subsequent travels around the world spurred me to collect the newest specimen from each country I visited - a dingo from Australia, a gecko from Indonesia, a rare blue-winged penguin from the South Island of New Zealand. To this day, I - an otherwise-functioning, professional, sometimes cynical adult with little patience for treacle or overwrought sentimentality - still bring a small fuzzy horse with me as a pillow/diversion on business trips (ssh, don't tell my boss), and my postmodern black & white bed is still inhabited (I will confess) by Marmalade, my dirty, careworn orange tabby cat/childhood best friend.

So yes, this drivel struck a bit of a nerve. I think that - especially in the 21st century, where kids grow more and more divorced from nature and creative play and imagination by the year (why build forts or invent animal kingdoms or play tag when you can plop in front of the Internet, flick on some cartoons, or kill stuff on your X-Box?) - anyhow, I think there's some value in encouraging kids to play imaginatively. Caring for something, loving it - even if it's just a made-in-Korea mish-mash of polyester fur and glass bead eyes - encourages creative thought, teaches empathy, instills the desire to care for a creature dependent on you (a nice precursor to a pet or - dare I say? - a husband!!), and lets kids be kids....not these cynical mini-adults in designer togs that are watching David Lynch films and sipping black coffee at age 8.

So what message is this smarmy author sending, when she remarks (you can hear the cynicism and indignation dripping from each consonant), "...This would be an act of betrayal, because as every good child knows, you are supposed to love your stuffed animal no matter how worn and dirty, and reject any shiny cheap-date substitute." Maybe I'm extrapolating here, but this comment raises my hackles because it's a parallel (albeit on a very small scale) to the "everything's disposable" mindset of modern society. Don't like your marriage, your pet, your house, your job? Toss it away and get a new one, a shinier model - hell, buy it on credit! Don't bother developing attachments to things - it's not the relationship itself but the acquisition that matters.

Apparently for Ms. Bazelon, imaginative play isn't as "harmless" as it seems. Lose your beloved stuffed animal, one that you - as a child, mind you - have developed a bond with? No problem. Just hop on down to Toys 'R Us and get another one. Sure, I'm not a nutter - it is, after all, just an object. But the meaning a child invests in an object, I think, extends well beyond the fur and stuffing. I remember when my sister left her favorite stuffed animal - a small purple rabbit - in our hotel room in Bali, and how my parents worked tirelessly with the concierge, the Indonesian and Chinese post offices, etc. to make sure she got her special buddy back. Could they have gone out and bought another one? Uh, sure. But that wasn't the point, wasn't the point at all.

I wonder if this article's author disabuses her children of the notion of Santa Clause or the Tooth Fairy too, even when they're at an age when they still themselves believe, because it's simply too irrational and silly and, well, childish? And really, how hard is it to make the leap from 'eh, it's just a stuffed animal' to 'eh it's just a puppy?' In a few years, perhaps her son will go from wanting a Webkinz to a real-life pup. And when said pup (or cat or snake or pony or hamster or whatever) becomes a nuisance, shreds the rug because you've set no limits, pees on the carpet because you never bothered to housebreak him, jumps on the postman because you never socialized him. runs away because you didn't fence your yard - what then? Why, pop in to the pet shop (it's just a commodity - no need to research a responsible breeder or anything so taxing) and get a shiny new version, Puppy 2.0

It makes me ill. Let kids be kids. Let them love their fuzzy stuffed animals Let them imagine. Let them prefer their snotty-smelling, dog-eared, worn fur teddy bear to the new model you just bought them. Maybe then your child will grow up with an appreciation of things beyond mere commodity, maybe they'll grow up with empathy and responsibility and critical/creative thought and - dare I say?- the ability to invest themselves in something, to love? I may not be the perfect wife, the perfect daughter, the perfect friend, but every time I look in Marmy's glossy green eyes, I think how she was there with me as I grew up - a confidant, a friend - and how she helped me teach myself lessons that I draw on to this day. I feel sorry for your kids, Emily Bazelon. You've cheated them of something precious and formative.