Ah, Sophie! (I hope you heard that in the French accent I typed it with.) Sophie, la Giraffe! How all adore thee. Your slender neck and graceful legs are perfectly proportioned for little hands to grasp. You are loved by all. And, may I say, you look great for 50.
Yes, Sophie the Giraffe is fifty years old, and still fabulous. It seems as though every baby I know has a Sophie. Hell, even my friends without babies know about Sophie. That’s saying something. With all these rubber giraffes and all the baby dates Rhys and I have, I figured it would be wise to be able to identify his Sophie from the pack. I didn’t dare put his initials on her—first, I’m sure using a Sharpie on surfaces that will certainly be gnawed on by an infant is frowned upon, and second, how could I possibly disgrace her body in that way? I then noticed the serial number stamped into the back of one leg. Perfect, I thought. I’ll memorize the last three digits. Like a raffle ticket at the company holiday party. 227. Easy enough to remember—like that show that used to be on in the 90s. I got this. Sophie 227 is ours.
And then, a week or two later, I realized I won’t need to identify our beloved Sophie by number. Why, you ask? Because my son has chewed the ever loving hell out of poor Sophie. I’m serious. The other Sophies I see have bright spots, defined hooves, and deep, dark eyes. Rhys’s Sophie is less luminous. His Sophie has been used and abused. Poor girl has been around the block. Like, a lot. I see that she gets wiped down daily, but the damage shows. She may be faded, lost her vibrant spots, and the sparkle in her eye may have dulled, but her squeak is as vivacious as it ever was. And, more importantly, she is so loved. Rhys’s eyes illuminate when she comes into view; he reaches for her like a long-lost friend. And into his mouth she goes, her rubber ears squeak against his gums. He smiles that joyful smile, and breathes his little balloon breath.