DEAR SPRINGFIELD MAMA

When Leo was a toddler, I told my mom that he wasn’t really into the stuffed animals I kept buying him.

“Well, Brittany,” she said gently, “you have to bring them to life.”

So one night, I picked up a stuffed dog, gave her a silly voice, made up a little story, and chatted with her for a minute. Then I turned to Leo and said, “Now you have to keep Doggy company, because I’m going to bed and she’s reallllllly talkative.”

It was like magic.

Leo started talking to Doggy regularly. He giggled with her, comforted her, dragged her into the garden day after day. She became his favorite.

I used to dread the day she’d get left behind—at Grandma’s house, in the car, anywhere. I imagined him lying in bed, heartbroken, grieving the absence of his best friend.

But my fears were unwarranted.

The first time Doggy was forgotten in the car, I picked up a different stuffie, made a new voice, and spun a new story. It went off without a hitch.

Doggy is still queen. But now, at bedtime, he doesn’t drag himself out of bed to find her if she’s not nearby. Instead, he scans the room, grabs whatever stuffie is closest, and juts it toward me.

“Say something to her first.”

What he really means is: Say something to me through her. Make the voice, Mom. Make the story.

So I do. It takes two seconds. I slip into character, imagine what the stuffed animal might be thinking, say it aloud, then place her gently in his arms with a kiss goodnight. He instantly clutches it close and smiles.

It took so many repetitions of this tiny bedtime ritual before I realized: it’s not Doggy—or any of the animals—that he loves most. It’s me. It’s my voice, my spirit, my attention made tangible. Something he can carry with him after I leave the room.

I’ve spent a lot of my time thinking about how much I love my son. It’s equally expansive, however, to meditate on how much he loves me.

But kid-love looks different.

It looks like a boy who holds tight to a threadbare stuffed dog, because somewhere inside it, his mother’s voice still lingers.