My Other Other Child is Also a Monkey

I wrote a blog entry about a week and a half ago about my “other” child, a sock monkey named E.E., who had become my daughter’s “lovey,” and whom I had to keep track of as carefully as I would another child to avoid breaking her heart if E.E. should ever go astray. Well, wouldn’t you know that a few days later, E.E. somehow managed to acquire a “lovey” of his own, a little pink sock monkey that my daughter dubbed “Pinkie.” (Well, she actually named her “Pink,” but my husband was really bothered by that name for some reason and convinced her to change it to “Pinkie.” Because that’s more creative. Or something. Hey, as long as husband, daughter, and monkey are all happy about it, so am I.)

So now I have another other child to keep track of at all times.

Now, instead of asking “Where’s E.E?” all the time, my daughter asks, “Where’s E.E. and Pinkie?” all the time. And now, instead of her doing things twice as slowly because one of her hands is busy holding E.E., she does things four or five times as slowly because she’s trying to juggle both E.E. and Pinkie at all times. She wants to be carried down the stairs every morning because she doesn’t have a free hand to hold the railing. It takes longer to buckle her into her car seat because she needs to carefully transfer both monkeys from hand to hand in order to slip her arms through the harness. Ditto for putting on a shirt or jacket. And eating, as you can see from the photo above, is a much more complicated – and time-consuming – and messy – business when done with two monkeys clutched firmly in her arms.

But there are also advantages to double monkeys. With both her hands occupied, the chances of her getting her hands on an unattended crayon or ballpoint pen or magic marker are significantly lessened. She has less ability to resist when I pick her up against her will for fear of dropping a monkey. She is more likely to keep herself entertained by making her monkeys dance together (their favorite is the cha-cha, which for some unknown reason is danced to the rhythm, “one, two, cha-cha, four, five, cha-cha;” I’m still not sure where the missing cha’s and the third beat went – sorry Bammy and Aunt Holly!), or have conversations, or hug and kiss each other. But best of all, double monkeys means that when one of the monkeys is banished to the washing machine (as is almost always necessary following any meal involving maple syrup, ketchup, jelly, or marinara, which includes about 80% of all meals served in our home), the other can stay with my daughter. While this is not completely an acceptable situation in my daughter’s eyes, it’s a great improvement over having no monkey at all until the washing machine cycle is complete (I don’t even bother with the dryer; damp monkey is better than no monkey, in her opinion).

So now every time we get in the car – or out of the car – I make sure I count 4 noses, 2 kids and 2 monkeys. When we leave the playground, I make sure I have 2 kids and 2 monkeys. I check at least once per aisle in the grocery store to be sure I still have 2 kids and 2 monkeys present and accounted for.

But to be perfectly honest, I really don’t mind that much. I’m just glad that my daughter has such pleasant and well-mannered friends.

My Other Child is a Monkey

My readers who know me personally know that I have two biological children as well as an adult stepdaughter. But I bet that none of you know that I also have one more child. His name is E.E., and he is a sock monkey.

My son never had a typical “lovey” like most kids have as babies. We had a collection of four dozen plain white washcloths that we referred to his “rags” that he used to cuddle with, chew on, and just generally comfort himself with. But having two dozen of them that were identical, there were always a bunch around in both cars and in every room of the house, any of them that got dirty or damaged could be thrown away and replaced, and if we lost one it was no big deal. So we didn’t really have to pay attention to or keep track of the rags. But my daughter has decided that her sock monkey, E.E., is her best friend and constant companion. And E.E. is in no way, shape, or form, replaceable.

One of the first things my daughter says when she gets up in the morning is, “Where’s E.E.?” despite the fact that he is lying in bed next to her. If she leaves a room and comes back, she asks, “Where’s E.E.?” as if he’d wandered off while she was gone. If she gets distracted by a toy and suddenly realizes he’s not next to her, she’ll exclaim, “Where’s E.E.?” in great alarm. When she’s overly tired, she’s even been known to sleepily inquire, “Where’s E.E.?” while she’s holding him IN HER HANDS. She shares her snacks with E.E., she tucks him carefully under the blanket with her at nap time, she pretends to change his diaper, she hugs and kisses him, she even holds conversations with him. We have weekly arguments over whether E.E. has to stay in the car during her gymnastics class or whether he will guard her sneakers in her cubby at the gym. If E.E. is not visible to her at all times, she panics.

And because of that, I have to supervise E.E. as if he were another child in the family. I need to be absolutely certain that I know E.E.’s whereabouts at all times. If we leave a particular area, like a playground or a restaurant, unless E.E. is holding someone’s hand, there is no hope he will follow us like most children would. He’s like an independent, self-focused child who pays no attention to the rest of the world. He neither notices nor cares that the family is leaving, and stubbornly and silently stands his ground. You would think that he would at least be easy to find since he stays wherever he is put, and yet his tendency to wander (with a bit of help from one pair of small hands or another) is notorious. I have to check on him every few moments so he doesn’t have a chance to get far without my knowledge. Since he doesn’t answer when I call him, it’s entirely up to me to figure out where he’s hiding.

So nose counts in my family these days include my son, my daughter, and my monkey. I feel just as responsible for his health and well-being as I do for my human children. And although he may not reward me with hugs and kisses, he also never talks back, never misbehaves, and is completely potty-trained. Which is more than I can say for my other children. So I think I’ll keep him. (But don’t worry, I’ll keep the rest of them, too. The hugs and kisses more than make up for everything else.)

Security Blanket - or Security Rag, or Security Chin

When I was little, we all had security blankets. Mine was a soft white waffle weave with yellow satin binding. It started off a bit worse for wear, being a hand-me-down from my sister, and went downhill from there. When I was scared, or sleepy, I would comfort myself by clutching it in my left hand and rubbing it against my face while I sucked my thumb. By the time I outgrew it it had become ragged, grubby, and pilled, with long strips of binding hanging literally by a thread. My sister also had a security blanket. She was so attached to hers that I remember my mom describing how she would stand anxiously by the washing machine while it was being washed, and would then follow my mom to the backyard while she hung it on the clothesline and would then stand out under the clothesline hanging onto it for hours while it dried.

Kids today seem to have expanded their “security” repertoire – so much so that a “security blanket” is no longer called a security blanket, but a “lovey”. It might be a stuffed animal, or a pacifier, or a small toy, or some other random object that the child has decided for some unfathomable reason is a comfort. And in keeping with their generation, both of my children chose non-blanket objects as their loveys.

My son did, at least, stay within the textile family. When he was born, my husband and I bought several packs of two dozen plain white washcloths from Costco. These cloths served as burp cloths, bibs, handkerchiefs, impromptu changing tables, teething rings, sponges – anything you could possibly do with a piece of terrycloth, we did with them. And my son, God love him, chose them as his lovey. Even now, when he is overly tired or not feeling well, he begs for a “rag” to snuggle with and chew on. In our opinion, it’s the ideal comfort object, since we have 48 of them and there is guaranteed to be one within reach anywhere in the house and in both cars. We don’t have to worry about him being anxious while his lovey is in the wash, because there are dozens more exactly like it for him to choose from. And if we lose one? No problem, there are 47 more around.

My daughter, on the other hand, has been somewhat more creative and varied in her choice of lovey. Since she tends to be a flailer, reaching out with her arms and kicking out with her legs when she is agitated or upset, she will grab onto whatever object is handy to calm herself down and help keep herself still. It could be a blanket, but it could also be a doll, a block, my finger, my hair – whatever her little hand happens to encounter first. She does this especially when she is having a bottle. My favorite position to feed her in is sitting at my computer with my feet up on the desk and her nestled in the little cradle of my belly, with the back of her head on my chest and her feet at my knees. I love it because I can lean down and sniff and nuzzle the top of her sweet fuzzy baby head. She loves it because she can not only reach up and grab her own ears and hair, as she often does, but she can also reach up and pat my face or cup my chin. My chin seems to be her favorite comfort object of late. With her eyes shut tight, she flails upwards in the general direction of my face until she smacks my chin, then she grabs on tight with her little kitten claws and I can feel her relax. This is another reasonably convenient lovey, since there will always be a chin handy for her to hang onto – it might not be mine, but I suspect the chin of whoever is taking care of her will be acceptable.

Loveys may have changed over the years from a security blanket into various other huggable objects, but I’m not complaining. There’s no higher honor than to be a human lovey for my own sweet loveys.