Whatever the opposite of a Christmas miracle happens to be is what has been our reality over Christmas break.
It started as a standard, nondescript Christmas holiday. Despite the pandemic, we masked up and headed south to visit my wife’s family in Missouri. We’ve been more or less holed up at home in Wisconsin for nine months, corona ripped through our hometown this fall, then churned its way through the in-laws in early December. Admittedly, it’s a calculated gamble coming here, but it’s been good to see family — all of whom have been cautious if for no other reason than our request — and to celebrate the holiday with folks we haven’t seen in forever.
What we didn’t expect was to come face to face with an existential crisis. Somewhere between St. Robert and Springfield and Branson, we lost Clancy.
Clancy is my girl’s stuffed puppy dog. But to just refer to him a stuffy is to call the Gateway Arch a local art installation.
When my other twin daughter underwent outpatient surgery to remove a hair tourniquet from one of her toes — another absurd tale for another time — we went to Target to find her a prize for being brave (a term used and reused in our family for whenever one, deservedly or otherwise, endured a trip to the doctor.) We found some stuffies on clearance, including two puppies: one chocolate brown; the other, black. E received the brown Larsen, named for the doctor who looked at the toe and almost immediately prepped for procedure.
I immediately vocalized her displeasure with not getting a prize for being brave — as mentioned, deservedly or otherwise — and I scraped up the money to get Clancy a few days later.
Before long, Larsen became a marginal stuffy in the grand scheme. Clancy, however, became I’s inseparable friend. And Clancy has had the living crap beaten out of him over six some odd years. He’s been spilled on, puked on, the stuffing slowly bled from him. And he’s been cleaned and loved every time.
As the girls have gotten older, though, Clancy has become something taken for granted. When it’s time to go to bed, he started to get left in other rooms and, on occasion, forgotten entirely. Some nights, she’d remember as she ambled into bed. Others, she’d come out of her room an hour or so after being tucked in, wrapped in a blanket, looking for Clancy. But there had started to be those nights when he wasn’t entirely and absolutely essential for bedtime.
We left for Missouri on Christmas Day, as has been custom on even years since wife and I tied the knot 14 years ago. The family has broadened out enough since then that we could no longer stay in the same tiny house in the small, Ozarks town that has served as that family’s nerve center for going on two generations. So we stayed in a nearby hotel.
We always make a final sweep of our room whenever we check out of a hotel. Always.
Except this time.
We made it to Branson, where I dropped the family off at wife’s sister’s place and then checked into our next hotel and unloaded our baggage. And it didn’t occur to me that Clancy wasn’t there. Why would it? I, too, took Clancy for granted.
That night, I noticed my favorite Brewers hoodie was missing. And I wondered where Clancy was. Wife suggested I call the first hotel to inquire. I called, and the young, kind front desk clerk who answered took my information and reported he hadn’t seen anything, but would have their team on the lookout.
I then checked our minivan. Clancy was nowhere to be found. Wife checked for herself. Nothing. And I was despondent, nearly inconsolable.
I called the hotel again the next day and spoke to a manager. Again, nothing, but they noted again the urgency of the matter. I scoured our Branson hotel room, walked the paths I took from check-in to the room, praying Clancy would show up. I left a note with the front desk staff to be on the lookout. There are actual lost dogs who didn’t have such efforts taken to be located and reunited with their families.
Because even stuffed animals become family members at some point. These are elevated from possessions to partners to essential to the person’s very self. We all had them: a doll, a blanket, a toy, a stuffy. And if and when we lost them, we lost a part of ourselves in the process. It is amongst the first tragedies that shatter a child’s view of the world being a happy place.
And, right now, I have a little girl right there on the brink of her first major existential crisis. Neither Mommy nor Daddy are prepared to let her know that the world is a very broken place where heartbreak happens too easily and we too often pay the price for taking valuable and valued nouns for granted. So we’re putting on a brave face.
I called the hotel again this morning. They found my hoodie, but still no Clancy. And while I was pleased to know my item was found, it was of no consolation. I could replace my hoodie. It would suck, but I could ultimately live without it.
As Clancy has been loved and well-loved into his current flopsy, dilapidated form, wife and I have occasionally tried to find a replacement. Apparently, shortly after we found Clancy and Larsen, the company discontinued those particular puppies. I looked online, only to see that what I could find was in the aftermarket, and significantly marked up to boot.
Clancy is priceless, but his replacement is awfully costly. Plus, a replacement will never be Clancy. There isn’t another Clancy, not to her and not to us. Clancy is irreplaceable because he is hers. It is, at its essence, an intimate, meaningful I-Thou relationship.
So, if you happened to be traveling between St. Robert, Springfield and Branson on the weekend after Christmas 2020, and you happened to see a flopsy, beaten up black stuffed puppy dog, would you kindly let me know? There’s a seven-year-old little girl who is desperately missing her Clancy.
And a Daddy who isn’t ready to watch his daughter’s heart break, fully knowing that it may already be too late.
sailerb 