Spinning Plates: Plushy Obsession
Volume 2, Issue 6
Before Azad was born I installed a shelf opposite her crib to host the diverse battalion of toys friends and family sent as baby gifts. We called them “The Welcoming Committee,” a suite of imaginary friends arranged for childhood fantasy indulgence: an embroidered reindeer from the Sierra Madres, an elegant bear with a clutch purse, a crocheted octopus, a plush gorilla with a goofy grin.
Once Azad achieved sentience she developed a special attachment to the stuffed ape, who I dubbed “Mister Rilla” … hewing to a personal pattern of peppering life with unnecessary linguistic complexity (see also: naming an actual cat “Dr. Soft Body,” or leaving a modestly successful nonprofit career to write tongue-in-cheek newsletters). Mister Rilla continues to serve as de facto leader of the stuffy coterie, which includes Sir Puppington (why yes, he does have a British accent, why do you ask?) and Rabbitron.
In retrospect, the four syllable simian name, packed with hard-to-pronounce Ls and Rs, was a cruel trick to play on a toddler. Azad’s earliest attempts to pronounce Mister Rilla were incoherent to anyone but her parents. We knew, though, than an urgent “BuudDaBuudDa?” with the accent on the 2nd and 4th syllables, was an unmistakable request to account for homie’s whereabouts.
Most of the time, though, he is easy to find: dangling like a furry mobile from Azad’s clenched fist, tail between four fingers, while she simultaneously sucks her thumb. He remains permanently coated in a fine layer of drool, making Mister Rilla, by a wide margin, the worst smelling member of our household, and that includes the dog.
Earlier this year my parents took our extended family (Six adults! Three toddlers! One house!) on a vacation to Mexico’s pacific coast. Azad got quality time with Nana and Papa, while learning at the feet of her older cousins Quintin (4) and Summer (2). Mister Rilla provided moral support for every part of the journey, including a harrowing night when Azad dropped him from a moving vehicle.
“I thought this might be important,” a kind stranger said, after running to catch us while clutching the splotchy, bedraggled creature.
“You thought right,” I said, panic, anxiety, and dread peaking in rapid cycles.
Crisis averted, we savored the ways that travel releases us from old patterns, allowing us to interrogate our sense of reality, much of which we turn over to kids the minute they’re born. Azad’s habits and moods changed throughout the vacation, too. She stole her older cousin’s oversized Crocs to tap dance around the house and insisted on golf cart rides with Papa before bedtime.
The most striking and mysterious shift, though, was rhetorical. At eighteen-months-old, Azad had just a tiny vocabulary of distinctive words. But at some point during the trip she started saying a new one.
“Bapi.”
She drew out the second syllable - bah PEEEEEE - an adorably spontaneous riff on “Papi,” the Spanish term of endearment. When we got home from the trip, I mentioned the neologism to Gilly, Azad’s caregiver.
“She’s saying ‘Bapi’ all the time,” I mentioned casually, “I’m not sure it means anything though.”
By the end of that first day at home, Gilly approached me with a finding.
“Justin,” Gilly said with gravity, “when she says ‘Bapi,’ she’s talking about Mister Rilla.”
I was stunned. If there was a single constant in our protean family life, it was Mister Rilla: his permanent smile, the ease of his presence, and yes, his awful, awful smell.
But our not-yet-two-year-old - frustrated with dad’s overwrought naming conventions and emboldened by the transformative power of travel - took matters into her own hands. For the first time in a life still measured in months, she wrested the tyranny of normative semantics from her parents’ impotent lips.
I’m proud of Azad’s newfound control, and retelling the story reminds me of the fantasy worlds we create and unmake on a day-to-day basis. The reality we inhabit with children is fragile, as our structures and routines - no matter how intentional - must survive contact with the determination and imagination of children. They shape our world in beautiful, unpredictable ways. And the more control we cede, the more radical the flourishing of their imaginations.
As for Mister Rilla? He dead.
Long live … Bapi.
Too much to unpack, but you really captured the speed of life. Grateful for your writing. Peace, love, and understanding always.
This brought a smile to my face and a tear to my eye. Reminds me of your bear which we had to have shipped across the country when we were so foolish as to forget it while going on vacation. Kids…