The caretaker toys ?

Look at that face, it’s you again, Tita, right down to her chin,” remarked a niece.  “What about those gorgeous, curly lashes?” added a cousin.  They’re right; we are blessed with little Lettys and several Arthuritos with the same DNA or hereditary material.  Would they carry our other traits, too?


Take this soft spot I have for collecting things.  Keepsakes, we call them, or a token of remembrance that brings back touching moments that fill the heart with comfort and delight.

 I had miniature tea sets that my father brought from Japan.  I would sit in a gazebo sipping Coca-Cola masquerading as brewed tea, with my little pinky curled up for effect.

I kept walking dolls that blinked with thick, curly lashes and yellow curls that can be combed.  At night, I would tuck them next to my pillow, like my babies, and bid them a good sleep.  Each morning, these sleepyheads would smile back at me, their mommy.  


When I became a mother, my son developed an attachment to a particular flannel blanket, naming it Kumie (after kumot, the Tagalog word for blanket).  I tried to introduce other blankets, but he would intuitively cry and “demand” for Kumie alone.  He would rub it on his cheeks like Linus of Charles Schultz’ Peanuts cartoons, and push the soft corners of the blanket up his nose.  The smell, the texture, and probably its fading color sealed it as his one and only and irreplaceable favorite.

Without Kumie, everything stopped.  He couldn’t eat, take a bath, play outdoors, travel, go potty, and watch Sesame Street or sleep.  Everyone in the house grew sharp, probing eyes to make sure it was always within his reach, “Quick!  Look under the sheets!”  Whenever he fell asleep, his clasp would loosen a bit, but no one dared pull it away.  Any movement might stir him up and if the blanket strayed from his bed, everyone would go taranta (panic) until it was back in his hands, wound tight. My dilemma was how to wash Kumie without him noticing it.  Did I soak it in vinegar so that the sour, sweaty scent was not lost?  


When he turned five, he retired the blanket for Star Wars figures, thanks to an indulgent uncle who took him to Cartimar Market, each time.  Action figures were replaced by an ugly, extra terrestrial plastic figure called E.T. with a belly that lit up, until two Japanese animé robots, Mazinger-Z and Voltes 5, replaced it.

At bedtime, I could hear him inventing sounds to simulate battle engines and jet motors that propelled him to the galaxy for another pow blasting, inter-galactic combat.  Holding his metal buddies assured him that once again, he has saved the universe, before shut-eye.   


And then came the grandchildren:  Grandson picked a stuffed platypus as his best playmate.  Name given?  Platy.  Platy could run, tumble, slide down, and climb up the tree but thank goodness, he was washable.  Whenever he went missing, grandson would gasp in fear and so would I.  


 Granddaughter carried a stuffed penguin with a lumpy body that had gone under several wash and dry cycles.  The penguin was such a favorite companion that it was top on the checklist whenever the family traveled anywhere.  To my little diva, her penguin was her best friend who could bridge the absence of her mom.  So long as she was holding Penguin, sometimes by the neck, mom can be elsewhere, but temporarily.   It gave Mom a welcome break to attend to other must-dos like cook, drive, answer the phone, draw a bath, or even draw breath.   


What is it about these toys that make both parent and child declare a joint emergency crisis if they go missing?  The joys and the sorrow — of parenting — and the growing-up pains — of kids — are measured by their mere presence or heaven forbid, their disappearance.


Dr. Perri Klass calls them transitional objects.  “They are the beloved blankets or the tattered stuffed animals that children clutch to ease the stress of being examined or immunized, while others simply never leave the house without them.”

“These objects help the young child navigate the essential problem of separation,” says pediatrician Dr. Donald Wilcott, “They remind us that learning to negotiate, and even enjoy partings and reunions, is part of the whole assignment, for parents and for children.”

I like to call them the caretaker toys because they bring out the natural instinct of wanting to protect and safeguard the innocent, the helpless, and the young.

 This tendency to hang on to certain toys and objects does not stop when the child is fully grown.  My niece, a graduate of Physical Therapy from the University of the Philippines, owns and operates a chain of rehab clinics in the States, aside from her lucrative practice.  She still travels with the same pillow that her mother gave her in her teens.  “ It triggers memories of Mom and my bedroom and how easily I fall asleep on this pillow,” she claimed.  The stares and dumb looks that she gets when her pillow is passed through airport scrutiny is the least price to pay.      

Once, I heard my grandson engaged in a dialogue with his platypus, “Look Platy, Nonna is here.” He allowed me to listen and observe; I was even free to butt in anytime.  I was so amused that I shared this experience with a friend.  She cracked up.  “What if the platypus answered you back?”  That would have been so Amityville spooky.

No one can deny, however, the pleasure that my little chikitings have derived from their soft, cuddly, huggable, and mute friends.

In my books, they’re for real.  They have earned their keep, selflessly and wholeheartedly. 

An outdoor sign:

“No matter how bad or bold you are, when a two-year-old hands you a tiny red phone, you answer it.”