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Description
I slept with Eighty-Eight for years. I don't remember the exact age at which I stopped, but I do remember that the decision was conscious and deliberate and that it was completely my own. Neither my Mom nor Dad ever pushed me toward sleeping bearless. It was a choice that I made of my own free will, just like when I decided to get rid of my night-light or start sleeping with my door closed. To me, these decisions seemed monumental and terrifying, but they were decisions I knew I had to make.

I also remember feeling guilty about my decision, fearing that Eighty-Eight would feel like I was betraying him. But I had to. He had to understand that. In all honesty, it might have been 5th grade or it might have been 8th. I have no idea. All I remember is no matter how much loss or guilt I felt from kicking Eighty-Eight out of my bed, I knew it was well over due. I was now a big kid, and we did not sleep with teddy bears.

Eighty-Eight was pure white, with little red semi-circles on the paws of his hands and feet. He wore a red scarf with pompoms on the end, and a matching red beanie with white snowflakes and the year 1988 crocheted onto the brim. He was bigger than all of my other stuffed animals. For the longest time, I remember him seeming outrageously huge, like he was a real animal. After a while though, he seemed to get smaller and smaller every year, but that’s to be expected. My parents told me I got him as a present from Santa on my very first Christmas back in 1988. That being the case I can’t truthfully say that I’ve had him my whole life, but as I was born on the sixth of December, I went only 19 days without him. As far as I was concerned, that pretty much made us de facto BFFs.

Santa had brought my brother the exact same bear in green that Christmas, but he never formed the same bond as I did with Eighty-Eight. Maybe it was because Paul was four years older than me and was already moving on from stuffed animals to action figures. Maybe it was because the year 1988 didn’t hold the obvious significance for him that it did for me. Maybe it was just because he already had his “Woofy.” Either way, even though they were basically the same stuffed animal, you could tell which bear belonged to whom just by looking. Paul’s bear was fluffy and white and clean. Eighty-Eight was beige and grey from being dragged everywhere, and his cotton fur was permanently matted all over. The thin strand of yarn that made up his mouth was stretched and frayed, and the stuffing in his neck was thin and lumpy from being tucked under my arm all night, every night. His scarf always hung loose from him being pulled around the house by it. I remember him smelling a little like sour milk, but in an endearing way. I’m not sure if my mom ever washed him, but if she did, it didn’t do him any good.

One thing I always found funny about Eighty-Eight was that even though his little hat was sewn onto his head at a jaunt with only one of his ears exposed, he still had a second ear hidden underneath his cap. I thought it was strange that he was that anatomically correct. I thought that if I were creating a stuffed bear, and I knew that I’d be sewing a hat over one of it's ears, I wouldn't bother making the hidden ear at all. This little extra attention to detail, however miniscule, made him even more real to me. I used to reach underneath his red cap as I fell asleep, and would rub the hidden ear between my finger and thumb, just to remind myself that it was there.

I haven't seen Eighty-Eight in years. I think the last place I saw him was in a black plastic trash bag in the spare bedroom of my parent's house. I don't think I took him out when I saw him. I don't think I even thought much of it at the time. I probably figured I’d see him again, maybe next time I went down to visit my folks. Or maybe the time after that. Or whenever.

My parents are moving to Florida now. They've taken all kinds of boxes and bags of Paul and my old things to Goodwill and the church rummage sale. They told us to go through everything and take what we wanted before they took it all away, so Paul and I made a weekend out of going down and retrieving things we wanted to keep. We started off pretty strong, and went through all sorts of old drawings and school assignments, Ninja Turtles and McDonalds toys, old N'Sync CDs and Muppet Babies VHSs. There were Lincoln Logs and Legos. Birdhouses and walking sticks made at summer camp. Tiny little denim jackets and Space Jam soap dispensers. Towards the end, it all kind of blurred together and we started to lose steam. We went through a lot of stuff, and although we tried our best to be thrifty, most of it got put into the back of Paul’s van to bring back to our house in Portland. But I don't remember seeing Eighty-Eight at all. That old trash bag must have made it out of the house before that day without my knowledge. Or maybe my mom did ask me at some point, and I just didn't really think much about it. I vaguely remember her asking me if I would mind her taking the bag of animals to her class to give to her students. Either way, their house is on the market now and almost completely empty of the treasures of my youth. I’m pretty sure he’s not there anymore, and he’s not here either. He's just gone now.

If I had run across him while going through my old things, I probably would have saved him, but I doubt I would have given him much attention anyway. He was just a dirty, matted old stuffed animal, and I'm a big kid now.

A big kid that still falls asleep every night with a pillow tucked under his arm.

Description
I slept with Eighty-Eight for years. I don't remember the exact age at which I stopped, but I do remember that the decision was conscious and deliberate and that it was completely my own. Neither my Mom nor Dad ever pushed me toward sleeping bearless. It was a choice that I made of my own free will, just like when I decided to get rid of my night-light or start sleeping with my door closed. To me, these decisions seemed monumental and terrifying, but they were decisions I knew I had to make.

I also remember feeling guilty about my decision, fearing that Eighty-Eight would feel like I was betraying him. But I had to. He had to understand that. In all honesty, it might have been 5th grade or it might have been 8th. I have no idea. All I remember is no matter how much loss or guilt I felt from kicking Eighty-Eight out of my bed, I knew it was well over due. I was now a big kid, and we did not sleep with teddy bears.

Eighty-Eight was pure white, with little red semi-circles on the paws of his hands and feet. He wore a red scarf with pompoms on the end, and a matching red beanie with white snowflakes and the year 1988 crocheted onto the brim. He was bigger than all of my other stuffed animals. For the longest time, I remember him seeming outrageously huge, like he was a real animal. After a while though, he seemed to get smaller and smaller every year, but that’s to be expected. My parents told me I got him as a present from Santa on my very first Christmas back in 1988. That being the case I can’t truthfully say that I’ve had him my whole life, but as I was born on the sixth of December, I went only 19 days without him. As far as I was concerned, that pretty much made us de facto BFFs.

Santa had brought my brother the exact same bear in green that Christmas, but he never formed the same bond as I did with Eighty-Eight. Maybe it was because Paul was four years older than me and was already moving on from stuffed animals to action figures. Maybe it was because the year 1988 didn’t hold the obvious significance for him that it did for me. Maybe it was just because he already had his “Woofy.” Either way, even though they were basically the same stuffed animal, you could tell which bear belonged to whom just by looking. Paul’s bear was fluffy and white and clean. Eighty-Eight was beige and grey from being dragged everywhere, and his cotton fur was permanently matted all over. The thin strand of yarn that made up his mouth was stretched and frayed, and the stuffing in his neck was thin and lumpy from being tucked under my arm all night, every night. His scarf always hung loose from him being pulled around the house by it. I remember him smelling a little like sour milk, but in an endearing way. I’m not sure if my mom ever washed him, but if she did, it didn’t do him any good.

One thing I always found funny about Eighty-Eight was that even though his little hat was sewn onto his head at a jaunt with only one of his ears exposed, he still had a second ear hidden underneath his cap. I thought it was strange that he was that anatomically correct. I thought that if I were creating a stuffed bear, and I knew that I’d be sewing a hat over one of it's ears, I wouldn't bother making the hidden ear at all. This little extra attention to detail, however miniscule, made him even more real to me. I used to reach underneath his red cap as I fell asleep, and would rub the hidden ear between my finger and thumb, just to remind myself that it was there.

I haven't seen Eighty-Eight in years. I think the last place I saw him was in a black plastic trash bag in the spare bedroom of my parent's house. I don't think I took him out when I saw him. I don't think I even thought much of it at the time. I probably figured I’d see him again, maybe next time I went down to visit my folks. Or maybe the time after that. Or whenever.

My parents are moving to Florida now. They've taken all kinds of boxes and bags of Paul and my old things to Goodwill and the church rummage sale. They told us to go through everything and take what we wanted before they took it all away, so Paul and I made a weekend out of going down and retrieving things we wanted to keep. We started off pretty strong, and went through all sorts of old drawings and school assignments, Ninja Turtles and McDonalds toys, old N'Sync CDs and Muppet Babies VHSs. There were Lincoln Logs and Legos. Birdhouses and walking sticks made at summer camp. Tiny little denim jackets and Space Jam soap dispensers. Towards the end, it all kind of blurred together and we started to lose steam. We went through a lot of stuff, and although we tried our best to be thrifty, most of it got put into the back of Paul’s van to bring back to our house in Portland. But I don't remember seeing Eighty-Eight at all. That old trash bag must have made it out of the house before that day without my knowledge. Or maybe my mom did ask me at some point, and I just didn't really think much about it. I vaguely remember her asking me if I would mind her taking the bag of animals to her class to give to her students. Either way, their house is on the market now and almost completely empty of the treasures of my youth. I’m pretty sure he’s not there anymore, and he’s not here either. He's just gone now.

If I had run across him while going through my old things, I probably would have saved him, but I doubt I would have given him much attention anyway. He was just a dirty, matted old stuffed animal, and I'm a big kid now.

A big kid that still falls asleep every night with a pillow tucked under his arm.