Forty years ago my parents got me a teddy bear for Christmas. He was soft and had beans in his butt so he sat on his own. He had a delightful slouch that made him look like he was leaning in to hear you better, eager to be your friend. I named him “Bear.” Bear is still with me. The company that made him is called Gund. They make high-end baby stuffed animals now, and a few originals like mine. My Bear has seen some stuff to be sure. He had an eye poked out in the back seat of the bus (looking at you Tim V.) that was first covered with a band-aid and eventually replaced by a larger button. He’s lost most of his beans, so he just lays down now, tired.

He has a family though. He has a baby bear that looks just like him, a larger white bear who also has a mini-me, and most recently we added “Cocoa” to the family. She is a giant huggable delicious bear my kids added to my collection last year. They all live in my office, a sleuth of bears comfortably nestled on bookshelves.

There was a time a decade ago when things were off-kilter. I was running errands over lunch and stopped at a Tuesday Morning store. My kids were little then, so I wandered down the toy aisle. There I found a gathering of the baby-sized white version of my bear. They were super cheap, like three or four dollars each. This was so inexpensive for what Gunds sell for now. They all sat perfectly, grouped on a low shelf, waiting to be claimed. I was paralyzed. I was at a low point in my happiness, and I was rooted to the spot by the idea that I should buy all of the bears and set them aside so when I died someday they could be placed in my casket with me. I know, super crazy. I couldn’t shake it. I welled up and stood there weeping quietly in the toy aisle. I picked a few up, rationalizing the budget for how many I could take home. It took me another half hour to leave the store. I didn’t buy any bears, but the memory of how compelled I felt to buy them and how comforted I was by the thought of them being with me when I die is strong.

This all sounds sophomoric to me when I read it back, but you know what, who cares? I could rationalize all of this by talking about how Bear was with me through all the tough points of my life and so the bears in the store were an extension of that comfort, but I won’t. I turn forty-five this month, and I hear a perk of my forties is that in addition to knowing who I am, I am also free to no longer care about what anyone thinks of me. So, I’d better start practicing. I love my Bear and his family, and if that brings me occasional comfort, so be it.