My Fuzzy Lamb

For Christmas last year my grand daughter gave me a white, fuzzy stuffed lamb with a grey velveteen face, black button eyes and grey velveteen ears. The lamb’s round tummy has a pouch with a velcro closing, which contains a small pad that can be heated in the microwave, thus turning the sweet-faced lamb into a very warm and snuggly thing. But even without the heated-up tummy, the lamb is soft and lovely to hold. It will sit up any place I put it, its head slightly tilted, regarding me with its gentle eyes.

I described the lamb to my knitting group. “I can’t believe that at my age I am sleeping with a stuffed animal,” I told them. “But I am.”

They urged me to bring the lamb to the next meeting. And I did. Most of the women took turns holding it: experienced grandmothers, cupping their hands beneath its rump as if it were a newborn and patting it on the back. Soft cooing noises were heard in the church library.

“Does it have a name?” one woman asked.

“No, at least not yet.” I said.  Although somehow it is a he.”

“He should have a name,” another woman said.

I sat him up on the coffee table where he appeared to watch us knit.

One woman, one who hadn’t held him, looked in my direction over her busy needles and asked, in a slightly derisive tone, ”Doesn’t it make you feel stupid to be sleeping with a stuffed animal?”

I laughed. “Yes. Absolutely! And you know what’s great? I don’t care!”

 I figure it’s fine to feel a bit stupid now and then. We all do stupid things. What’s the big deal? Let’s accept ourselves. On a scale of one to ten of the stupid things I do in any given day? Sleeping with that lovely lamb rates about a two. So much better than losing track of the car keys!