I hate my son’s lovey.
You may remember the heartfelt piece I wrote a few months ago, when my son lost the stuffed-animal/blanket thing that had been his constant companion almost since he could eat solid food. This is not that piece. There’s nothing heartfelt about this one.
No, this post is different. It was originally written for the second issue of the Bad Playdate newsletter, a fun collection of items put together by another put-open parent who has seen her social life shift from a series of bad romantic dates to a series of bad play-dates, and isn’t afraid to bitch about it. She asked me to contribute a rant, and having just gone through another traumatic “where’s Lovey!” experience, this topic was fresh on my mind.
I may not be able to go off on my son, but I can go off on his stupid stuffed-animal-headed blanket thing. And go off I did…
The End of the Lovey Affair
I only have one kid – on purpose! – so why do I feel like I have several?
Oh, right: MY KID HAS A LOVEY.
It’s a little mini-blanket with a lion head on the top of it, and my son snuggles with it all day long. At first, it was cute: “Oh, look at how much he loves his lovey lion! It’s his best friend! ADORABLE!” Soon, it got too serious to be cute. Now my son can barely function without the thing.
No matter where we go, Lovey has to come along. In the car, to the restaurant, in the grocery store, to grandma’s, at the bar, and the next bar, and the bar after that. Taking a toddler out in public is challenging on a good day; if my kid doesn’t have his lovey, it’s a total non-starter.
What was once adorable has soured into addiction; “cute” has curdled into “codependent”. Shit has gotten too real. For all of us.
Every single time the thing is misplaced, it’s traumatic – for my son and for me. Every time he asks “where’s Lovey?” and I don’t immediately know, it’s panic-attack city until he’s found. Because I know if he’s not found, my kid will be inconsolable for days.
It’s gotten to the point that I spend more time worrying about the safety and whereabouts of my son’s blanket/stuffed-animal hybrid thing than I do worrying about my actual human son.
The next time he loses his lovey, it’s over. NO MORE LOVEYS. No more lies about Lovey going to help another little boy in need; no identical replacements that we convince my son is his same-old Lovey having returned from a stint in rehab (for exhaustion, I swear!).
THE MADNESS NEEDS TO STOP. It’s better to have had Lovey and lost than never to have had Lovey at all. OR EVER AGAIN.
Sorry, kid. I have enough stress in my life without worrying about where my addle-brained 3yo dropped his filth-ridden slobber blanket. Now if you’ll please excuse me, I have to find my lucky t-shirt. The game’s coming on.
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