When I was pregnant with my daughter 24 years ago, I was pretty certain she would be another son. Everything about the pregnancy felt the same as barely two years before: nausea some mornings but no barfing; same amount of weight & inches gained, in all the same places; carrying high enough for intense heartburn but also a fine teacup table. Plus a woman passing by in downtown Portland held my hand1 and told me I was having a boy.
So when the surgeon announced a girl, I’m pretty sure I said something like “No.”
I remember thinking I would not be good at parenting her, since I was only experienced with a boy child. That even though I myself was once a girl, as was my younger sister & also some friends, plus I had taught many middle school girls reasonably well2, I could not possibly be prepared.3 But there she was, ready or not.
Our infant daughter was a lot like our son when he was a newborn - namely, in the ways most babies are the same: crying, pooping, near-constant eating, crying while pooping or eating, being terrified and/or amazed by everything. My girl soon showed how different she was from her brother in many unexpected ways though: where he was cautious, she was a daredevil;4 when he engaged like a showman with anyone around, she retreated resolutely with fingers in her mouth; while he was relatively neat & steadfast, she required clothing changes5 every few hours; when he exited the room during stressful movie scenes, she obsessed over Nightmare Before Christmas.
But then, to the bursting of my nerd mom heart, both of them developed a love of books & accompanying talismans. She especially took to Pat the Bunny in a way our son never did. I’m not sure if it was the tactile & quietly interactive qualities she liked so much or the simple story of a toy and its family that she could enjoy easily on her own, but it was a fast favorite along with the accompanying stuffed rabbit, which we named Pat because it’s right there in the title.
Once, Pat fell out of her stroller in Sears but after some frantic, tear-filled6 searching & later calling the store, we got it back. We weren’t as lucky after it was left behind at PDX7 sometime later. Eventually we found another on eBay that matched the original’s height & shape, but it was shockingly difficult to get exactly the right one; we ended up with numerous versions, each still called Pat but with a different descriptor: Big Pat, Tiny Pat, Apple Pat, and Sweater8 Pat. Taking after George Foreman I guess.
All of the Pats slept on her bed every night, listening to stories and getting goodnight kisses. At least one would get to come on trips with us, more were allowed if we were driving instead of flying. There were a couple more near-losses through the years but we ultimately managed to keep track of and keep them all. My husband calls the original replacement Pat “Patches” because it has undergone a series of repairs, ending with iron-on fabric to hold its stitches in place.
Our girl won a county fair blue ribbon for artwork inspired by her first bunny, she has a Christmas ornament of the book along with a few other Pat-themed mementos, but a few years ago she chose a tattoo design to more permanently honor her connection. The depiction of the bunny on her arm has a more bent neck, like her Regular (#2) Pat who is now about 23 years old. Every time I see her ink I want to “smell the flowers” with her and, of course, pat the bunny like we did together while she was growing up. I love that my girl has continually upended expectations, chosen her own directions, taken known quantities and made them uniquely her own.
And of course I’m totally glad that I [and that lady on the street] was wrong back then.
Much to the utter horror of my sister, who I think was torn between street fighting and quickly getting me away from more random strangers.
I am pretty certain I would know if any middle school girls thought my teaching was bad as they generally share their opinions out loud.
Only a hormonal Virgo with an epidural & oxygen mask has all of these thoughts in 60 seconds on a hospital bed, I’m guessing.
By 18 months, attempting to climb the open drawers of a dresser like stairs, escaping the crib that her brother previously considered Alcatraz, standing up in a moving wagon/falling out/trying again; at 5, scrambling to all the rollercoasters she was tall enough to ride
Could be due to a startling amount of dirt & grime, could be merely desire for a new outfit
Both of us, of course.
Before 9/11, the kids & I routinely dropped off + picked up Dad at the airport for business trips. Portland had a mesmerizing play area featuring a pretend cockpit with stairs and a slide, where it was unfortunately too easy for a toddler to drop a toy and a parent to make sure it was retrieved. We shamelessly harassed the lost & found office every day, to no avail.
Because of the material it was made of, not its fashion. None of the Pats wore clothing, alas.
Love it! My son was never into this book much, but we had a hand me down VHS tape of a Pat the Bunny sing along show (I think?) - those songs were drilled into our brains for awhile “Pat the Bunny Pat Pat the bunny…” :)
Happy birthday to Paige and her Pats!