Cori Connors: Madam Alexander doll

Last week I visited a couple ballet classes in the Clytie Adams School of Ballet. I had written the song to which they will be dancing in recital this year. We wanted to explain the lyric so they could own it when they dance. The whole recital is based on a “toybox” theme. This particular song is called Madame Alexander Doll. A divine collection of thirteen-year-old dancers clustered around me and my guitar as I showed them my old Madame A doll and explained the lyric of the song. I told them there may come a day for them when they are nurturing their own babies and what they do will feel comfortable and familiar because they had once loved their dolls. One of the classes showed me what they had learned so far of the choreography of their teacher, Leslie. They stepped in and out of a pattern on the dance floor, scooping their arms up and then down as if they were holding babies. It stirred old feelings in me.

I mastered the art of hugging with my Madam A Pussycat doll. She was scented with that divine aroma of rubber and plastic. To me, that’s the smell of Christmas morning: pine trees, dust from the early morning heating vent and fresh-from-the-box baby doll. You would only know that recipe for nostalgia if you have tucked your lips into the neck of a baby doll. Some people love the new car smell. I love new baby doll smell.

I’ve also written a song for six-year-old dancers called Raggedy Ann & Andy. My own little Tess will be dancing to that one. She shows me the new moves they learn each week after her ballet class. “Gummy,” she announced as she got in the car after class last week, “next year I get to wear ballet shoes!” Her enthusiasm for the smallest things totally melts me.

I slept with my Raggedy Ann doll clear up until the day I got married. I recall the conversation I had with myself when packing for my honeymoon. I worked through the feelings of betrayal at leaving her sitting on the pillow of my bed at Mom’s house. (I think I must still be working through that.)

I am grateful that my Grands have had snuggles to help them acclimate to earth life. Everyone needs the unconditional love of something to snuggle. My mind enters that memory vortex where I swirl through the years trying to recall the most treasured ones for each of them. Parker, who will be graduating in a couple months, had his stuffed puppy dog, like Calvin did. His parents found an identical one for “just in case”. He loved them both. One was called Old Dog and the other New Dog. Old Dog always had an advantage of course. Cal had Puppy and Blankie. Blankie was hand quilted by my sister Sue when he was born. That blanket got him through so many years and so many tears! It ended up just a wad of threads, he loved it so much. Once, after a family reunion at our friend’s cabin in Idaho, we came home to find Ruby’s Ellie the Elephant missing. We called our friends who had a neighboring cabin. They went over and searched the whole place, finally finding Ruby’s stuffy under a bed. They drove into town and sent it to Ruby via overnight mail. (Thanks Sharon and Hal, for understanding the panic in Ruby’s household for those two days without Ellie.) Our grown children have impressed me with their ingenuity in helping their kids through letting go. Sophie’s binky was sewn in her matted stuffy rabbit. There are pacifiers imbedded in all sorts of things in our family.

Last week, while the Littles were sleeping over at our house for First Friday, I gently lifted Beth’s arm and retrieved BoBo the bear. I did the same with Snuzzle, the swaddle blanket Tess adopted as her security blanket years ago. They were both ridiculously dirty because they are passionately loved. I ran them through the washing machine with soap and a couple glugs of Clorox. Before I put my weary bones in bed around 3 am I tossed them in the dryer. Thank goodness I did that, because around 6 am I was yanked from a dream to Tessie’s face about six inches from mine: “Gummy, I have Gummy Snuzzle (that’s the back-up swaddle blanket I keep here) but I don’t know where Snuzzle is.”

I lugged by tired bones to the dryer and pulled Real Snuz out. She snuggled back down into her pillow, tucked Snuzzle into her chin and fell back to sleep. At the same time, I slipped a nice clean Bobo Bear back into Beth’s arms.

Making my grown daughter’s bed one time at her own house, I found her old blankey tucked under her pillow. It cinched my heart tighter to hers, as if that were possible. Then there’s that time my friend Annick and I were walking and I was directed by the Holy Spirit of Motherhood to open the door of a school bus parked in the church parking lot. It turns out my Annie’s purple blankie, which had been missing over a year, was in a lost and found box on that bus.

All these comforts have one thing in common: they are something to hug. I’m grateful my treasures feel a need to hug. When we hug there is an exchange… a give and a receive. That feels like divine balance.

That's Beth with Bobo on the left, quite a few years ago.

My oldest grandchild, Timothy, is living with us for two years while he serves his Lord as a missionary. When he first came, I told him I was going to hug him every night because there is something healthy in hugging. “I read somewhere we need to do it for at least eight seconds for the endorphins to release.” Then I sang the chorus to I Am A Child of God while we embraced. We have repeated that every night for the last 18 months. We both sing or hum and pat each other’s backs while we hug. It’s perfect because he’s a percussionist and I think we both need that rhythmic beat on the other sides of our hearts. The other day I recorded me singing it on my cell phone so I can pull it up and remember when he is done with his mission and no longer tucked against my heart every night.

At some point, deep into the pandemic, our daughter Kate, who lives across the country from us while she is working on her doctoral degree, called:

“I think I need to come home.”Her voice started to shake, that familiar shake I have known since she was tiny and crying on my shoulder.

“I think I need a hug.”

When she is home I remind myself that my girl needs more hugs than we logically allow ourselves to give. A daily hug, heart to heart, for at least eight seconds.

She’s back in New York now, alone. I think I will send her my Raggedy Ann. There are lots of old hugs stored in her.

I am grateful that some things, like some people, allow themselves to get completely used up and worn out by giving unconditional love.