TRANSCRIPT

I’m Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown. 

When I was a baby, the first doll I received was really more of a stuffed animal than a doll. She was meant to look like a baby swaddled in bunting—a hooded sleeper—so the only part of her that was plastic was her face; the rest of her was soft and plush. I called her Pink Baby because she was, well, pink.

I received Pink Baby on my first Christmas, when I was ten months old, and I slept with her every night from then on, until I was a teenager. Yes, I’m admitting to sleeping with a ratty baby doll way past the age that I probably should have been sleeping with a ratty baby doll. But we love what we love, and we get comfort where we get comfort. I told myself that Linus from the Peanuts comic strip carried his blue security blanket everywhere, but I only slept with Pink Baby. It could have been worse!

Now I have teens of my own, both of whom have stuffies they don’t exactly sleep with, but still like to have around. In fact, Pink Baby was adopted by my son when he was small, and for years he slept with her. He liked the smooth coolness of her plastic face, and I remember telling him that I always loved that part of her, too. 

My son grew out of that bedtime necessity years ago, probably when he grew out of wanting stories and songs from Mom before bed, but she's still around. Pink Baby is part of the family. I rarely see her—she’s in his bedroom somewhere—but I know she’s there. That gives me comfort. I’d be so sad to lose her, after all of these years.

Today’s poem brought me right back to being a young girl with a beloved doll. Back then, it would have been unbearable to be separated. 

Lamb
by Richie Hofmann

I had a lamb I brought everywhere

who only had one eye.

At the train stations,

all the grown-ups would say, be mindful

of your things, little boy,

someone will steal right out of your pocket

or take the watch off your wrist.

My dad had a beautiful overcoat.

The lamb’s white fur got smudged.

My brother was a baby,

and in the restaurants,

the old waiters would pick him up

and kiss him again and again on the cheek

with their mustaches

and tell my parents 

that they promised they would bring him back in a minute 

but now they needed to show the chef.

I don’t remember when the eye became unglued

and who knows where it went.

On long train rides,

I remember falling asleep,

putting my finger in the hole where it used to be.

Once he had to go in an overhead bin,

and he was freezing when I kissed him again.

"Lamb" by Richie Hofmann. Used by permission of the poet.