by Xen

Created on: October 09, 2009

I remember a sleepover with three of my cousins, two archetypical boys and a tomboy. Even when I was four or so, I felt somehow different, and not simply that they ate their morning Cheerios without the requisite honey nut. We played with army men and trucks and I felt more that I was performing a role for their benefit than that I was enjoying myself. It was only once they brought out a monster toy, equal parts man, toad, and crocodile, that I found something I enjoyed. In being anthropomorphic, it was like a stuffed animal. Even then, I was aware this rubbery thing was a concession between what I wanted and what was wise in front of relatives. While I don't recall my parents noting what constituted a "boy toy" or a "girl toy", I understood that there are clear delineations.

Next to books, I enjoyed stuffed animals, something that I think started to worry my mother, as I only fully disabused myself of plush things once I found that girls were a much more delightful-if emotionally inconsistent-replacement. Putting away childhood things meant that I could enjoy the pleasures of adolescent things (toys will always lose out to teenage groping). I still have the bunny I was given at birth (apparently named Bunrab, because toddlers are clever at naming things) and a Monchichi whose fur is loved off in places. Aside from these, while I have stuffed things (an UglyDoll IceBat, a skeleton in pajamas, two teddy bears named Gislebeartus and Beartrand Russell), I consider them decoration.

It isn't that I never wanted to play with more stereotypically masculine toys. I happened to appreciate my Optimus Prime (with the chest cavity that could act as a safe place to hide money from my older brother) and my set of Ninja Turtles, as well as the occasional water- and dart-guns I received when the season called for it, but I liked my stuffed animals more because I was emotionally invested. There were dozens, now largely consigned to hanging garbage bags in my parents' basement, each with its own name and personality that I could rattle off. My storytelling likely began here, contriving interrelations for a bunny in a top coat (since found by Melanie when it was used as an outdoor Easter decoration, laundered, and renamed Archibald) and a neon snake. Until third or fourth grade, I felt that not loving them as much as I could would mean they were neglected, and had to be convinced not to sleep with twenty in my bed, leaving little room for me. Even my mother's friend explaining

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