By Cory Armstrong-Hoss / Herald Forum
My wife had asked our daughter CeCe to clean out her room; the overflowing closet and bookshelves, the top of her chest of drawers, cluttered with necklaces and bright-colored rubber bands for friendship bracelets; journals, pencils, and stickers from book fairs; pins, medals and certificates from camp, sports and school.
In less than an hour she put about 10 boxes in the hall.
She boxed up book series like “Nancy Drew & the Clue Crew,” “American Girl,” “Angelina Ballerina” and the Sweet Valley Twins. Horse books: “The Horse Encyclopedia,” “Ride On, Horse Diaries,” “Wild Blue,” “Misty of Chincoteague.” Last year she’d ask me to read “For Horse-Crazy Girls Only” when I put her to bed. We’d read and reread about the different types: chestnut, bay, black, brown, roan, tobiano, sabino. Each had a description, like the one for gray horses: “Ever hear the saying ‘The old gray mare, she ain’t what she used to be?’… A foal that’s going to be gray when it growing starts ‘graying’ when it’s still young.”
A few months ago she began asking if she could put herself to sleep, to read or journal by herself. Now we just let her know when it’s time for lights off.
She boxed up the contents of a Barbie world built up over years: dolls, dresses and plastic furniture, a pink convertible. She boxed up her American Girl doll and a few cheaper knock-offs, with clothes, accessories and a wardrobe. She boxed up a friendship-bracelet making kit and crayons and Legos. She boxed up her Briar Horses, plastic horse figurines she’d received for birthdays, Christmas or doing extra chores: white and speckled and chestnut and roan.
She boxed up stuffed animals, cramming most of her stuffies into two boxes: a bright cotton-candy colored unicorn, a brown sloth from the zoo’s gift shop, a pink Valentine’s Day bear holding a heart, and more, plus the dogs: a gray and white husky, a black and brown terrier and a pack of others. Back when she asked us every week to get a dog, we hoped these would get her through.
I loaded these two boxes in my truck to give away at work, then a thought struck me: Bunny.
Aunty D had given CeCe a brown, fluffy stuffie more than four years ago, whom she called simply “Bunny.” CeCe insisted on Bunny’s presence: at sleepovers, at sleepaway camp each summer, on camping trips. I searched through these boxes, tossing a unicorn, a boa and a few dogs on my back seat.
No Bunny. CeCe had decided to keep her.
In that moment I breathed a little deeper.
She is our last one, a reminder that we are no longer certain parents. We are no longer playground, KidsBop, or Disney princess parents. We are no longer stuffed animal, doll or dress-up parents.
Today we are Gracie Abrams and Taylor Swift parents. Crushes on boys. Texting friends through a Messenger app on a tablet. Asking for make-up. High-waisted mom jeans and borderline crop tops, with long sleeves.
We were parents who put kids to bed, read stories to them and tucked them in, for 15 years. But we’re not those parents anymore.
Maybe next weekend I’ll ask if she wants to go to Goodwill with me, to drop off together all that she boxed up.
Cory Armstrong-Hoss lives in Everett with his wife and three kids. His kids have played a number of different sports. He’s a lifelong athlete, and he’s served as a coach, ref, and youth sports administrator. Find him at substack.com/@atahossforwords
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