As we move into Christmas, I’ve got time to tell y’all more of my business so today I’ll share how Teddy Ruxpin, and my writing, almost got me put in foster care.  :::: Dark humor warning, skip it if that’s not your thing. I’m not trying to traumatize anybody:::

Picture it Cincinnati 1989-ish. I’m in preschool with a teacher who technically has the same name as me, but not quite.  We don’t get along. The way I see it I’m learning everything just fine with my grandpa in the living room.  A little PBS followed by some flash cards, a nap and snacks. This lady has me working on pieces of carpet called mats. On one hand she tells me I can do what I want, but only from certain sections.  She’s on the last nerve I’ve got. Montessori learning in a public school. No amount of ants on a log snacks makes it worthwhile.

One day she gives an assignment for us to share something about ourselves at home.  FBI activity, but I go along with the project.  Everybody knows I’m an only child/ only grandchild and my imagination is vivid. So I think.  I talk about reading while I’m in the tub.  A little grown, but I’ve always enjoyed time to myself. It’s who I am.  I turn in my project, run down the hill to my Grandpa waiting for me and go on with my life. 

Things get blurry for me at this point, so here’s what my parents told me. Apparently child welfare shows up to the house and starts asking me questions. These questions are all about me in the tub and figuring out who else lives in the house.  Then the evidence is provided and it’s discovered that Teddy Ruxpin made it into my latest writing project. Only without his surname so the teacher thought some random man was reading to me in the tub. 

Now you would think that after getting egg on her face like that she would be kind to me.  Absolutely not.  I spent more time in timeout than anybody else in my class, AND the woman didn’t let me participate in the build a friend activity. It’s 2025, and if she still alive I hope that making me miss that activity haunts her right now.  I forgive you, Peggy because I’m Baptist. However, I hope you reincarnate as something misunderstood since you’re Buddhist… learn why you were wrong this round.

It was like she was aggravated with me not having trauma at 4. Jokes on her, a bunch of people died that next year so my trauma kicked in at 5. Mostly from watching people holler at the funerals and my one auntie (by marriage) making me touch my Grandaddy’s (not Grandpa)dead hand.  Then everybody sitting up eating chicken and laughing after all that crying. I still don’t fool with too much duality.

Anyway Teddy Ruxpin was an 80s luxury toy, but mine almost got me sent to the system. Sorry to that bear. Now the more I think about it, it was scary as hell but I wrote about it like it wasn’t, trying to make myself brave. I just remember my parents being on top of making sure Teddy was around for bath time, but his eyes would get stuck and the mouth didn’t match.  It was like a Showbiz Pizza nightmare, but at home and while you can’t run off on account of all the soap. I think they did it to mess with my mind and keep me from getting out the tub and snooping in the closet and cabinets. 

Happy Holidays 🙋🏾‍♀️

story time writer writing