By Jeff Davidson
It doesn't hurt to be optimistic. You can always cry later.
~Lucimar Santos de Lima
In 1997, when Valerie was seven years old, I decided to take her to New York to see my sister Nancy. We made our plans months in advance. Valerie was young, but extremely bright, and I knew she would take in a lot — Manhattan would be a notable experience for her. I was greatly looking forward to spending this time with her and my sister.
It doesn't hurt to be optimistic. You can always cry later.
~Lucimar Santos de Lima
In 1997, when Valerie was seven years old, I decided to take her to New York to see my sister Nancy. We made our plans months in advance. Valerie was young, but extremely bright, and I knew she would take in a lot — Manhattan would be a notable experience for her. I was greatly looking forward to spending this time with her and my sister.
The big day in early December finally came. Our flight was uneventful and Valerie had considerable fun on board with her crayons, puzzles, and the in-flight headset. Then we landed at La Guardia. As we walked through the airport, Valerie held her favorite stuffed animal, "Bunny," and I carried the luggage. We stopped by the restrooms, and I waited outside while she went to the ladies' room. When she was finished, we left the terminal building, hailed a taxi, and began our trip into the city in the cold drizzle that is typical for New York in December.
Traffic was moderately heavy. About a half-hour into our trip, when we were almost to Manhattan, Valerie exclaimed, "I forgot Bunny!"
I said, "What do you mean?"
"I left Bunny in the airport."
"Where in the airport?"
"In the ladies' room, I think."
"Oh, Val," I said. "It's already been a half-hour. Hundreds of people have gone in and out of that bathroom. Bunny's gone."
"No," she said, on the verge of a great cry, "we've got to go back and get Bunny."
I carefully explained that even if we returned to the airport immediately, there was little chance that her stuffed rabbit would still be there. If we asked the driver to turn around and go back, our ride would cost three times as much and we would miss meeting my sister. If someone had turned in Bunny to a lost and found, whenever we returned to search for him would make no difference.
Logic was earning me no points, and more miles had passed. I made a parental decision. We were going to continue riding to Manhattan. Misconnecting with my sister (these being pre-cell phone days for us) would be one too many disasters in the same morning. Valerie broke into audible sobs. I felt I could console her as I had done successfully so many times before, but this, it dawned on me, was an unprecedented situation. To my dismay, she continued to weep, uncontrollably, for the rest of the ride.
We arrived in Manhattan, met my sister — Valerie's only aunt — and Valerie was noticeably happier. We made our way to the top of the Empire State Building. Then, looking at the rain-covered, bird's-eye view of the nation's biggest city, Valerie couldn't overcome losing Bunny. She resumed her sobbing.
One long elevator ride later, we found a bank of phone booths on the ground floor of the building. On the phone, Valerie explained to her mother what had happened. I called La Guardia Airport and discovered there was no all-in-one phone number. I was seeking to find someone, anyone, who could hunt for the bunny. I shoved in an endless round of quarters. My stress was building as one call after another yielded no results, and the room in which we stood seemed to become busier and noisier. Valerie was still distraught.
I left as many messages as I could to airport and airline officials far and wide. Then I explained to Valerie that people were searching for Bunny all over the airport. I attempted every legitimate maneuver I could conjure up to take her mind off the search. We walked through the first-floor shops. We watched a band play in the lobby.
I came to realize that the grief Valerie felt for Bunny was the same emotion adults feel when they lose a loved one. Still, when we took a picture in front of a lobby replica of the building itself, Valerie composed herself and broke out a toothy grin. I could tell she was trying to be brave and to enjoy the trip despite her loss. It was important, however, to honor Valerie's feelings: that losing Bunny was unthinkable. I didn't want her to suppress her feelings for the sake of approval by grown-ups.
We were to depart the city on Sunday morning, and I promised Valerie we would look for Bunny first thing at the airport. I could picture her mother who, unbeknownst to Valerie, was frantically searching for a Bunny replacement. Sue found and called the manufacturer about the stuffed animal, but the company simply didn't make them anymore. It was a valiant effort, although I already knew that no other toy could replace Bunny. Like a hopeful child, I too wanted to believe we would find him.
Saturday passed rather well. Valerie broke into sobs once in the late morning and once in the evening, deeply lamenting the loss of Bunny. Our day was filled with the sights and sounds, and smells, of the city. We took the full city tour, climbed to the top of "Miss Liberty," and picnicked in Central Park just south of the reservoir.
Sunday morning finally came. We bade my sister farewell and rode to the airport hours before our flight, so early that the long corridors were nearly empty. It was a huge airport with construction in progress and not so easy for retracing steps.
We finally found and checked the bathroom where Bunny had last been seen. No Bunny. Then we examined countertops, ledges, luggage carts, and seemingly every place that a toy rabbit could hide.
We asked the first airport employee we saw where to find lost objects. He pointed us down a long hall in the next building. We walked for quite a stretch — it had to be nearly a ten-minute hike — but for Valerie it was no labor. We were on the Bunny trail, and nothing else mattered. Secretly, I was dreading the possibility that Bunny was gone forever. I knew we were running out of options.
When we reached what seemed to be our destination, it appeared less than promising. Through a crack in the door, we could see a light on in a small, dingy room where apparently dust mops feared to tread. We walked in to find no one there. Then, a woman emerged from a door in the back of the room.
Valerie described the situation at length, and the lady said she'd do what she could. She went back through the same door from which she had come. Valerie followed her to where she could see down a small hallway-like closet. The woman walked a few paces to some metal shelves. She picked up the object most resembling Valerie's description but grimaced slightly, unsure if this was the vauled prize. Then Valerie shouted, "THERE'S BUNNY!" Sure enough, Bunny had been "resting" on one of the shelves.
The woman handed over the toy rabbit to an ecstatic young girl. I was stupefied. I am a positive thinker by nature and had been hoping for the best but preparing for the worst. If that shelf had been bereft of Bunny, undoubtedly some of the real work of fatherhood would surely have followed.
In my newfound glee, I thought to myself, "This is like a storybook ending. We lost; we found. Whew!" Would she have otherwise dreaded New York or plane trips or airports forevermore? Would our bond have been weakened?
We strode sprightly from the dingy room to an airport now buzzing with life. Passengers had started arriving. Vendors had opened up shop. Porters were handling luggage. Vending machines and pushcarts and luggage carousels made their merry mechanical noises.
We phoned in the spectacular news to Val's mom, who seemed equally elated. We had nearly two hours to kill, but on such a special morning it didn't matter. My apple spice muffin and Valerie's plain bagel yielded abnormally high levels of edible contentment.
On the return flight, Valerie clung to Bunny with an intensity I hadn't previously witnessed. The one time she went to the restroom, she told me to hold Bunny "with both hands" until she got back.
When we landed, her mother greeted us at the airport as if we had made our way back from across the Atlantic. Sue had heroically located a substitute rabbit from a local vendor that looked somewhat like the first one. Valerie named the second stuffed rabbit "Sunny," as in "Sunny Bunny," and to this day, six years later, she has both of them, though Bunny is still, by far, her favorite.
Probably every other parent has a "Bunny" story. Nine times out of ten, you aren't going to find that rabbit again. Nine times out of ten, it's going to be a sad story. This one turned out sublime. Days following our New York trip, I talked with friends about the episode, and one said, "Look, she's seven years old. Let her believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and that stuffed animals stay faithful to their owners. She'll have different experiences soon enough." So I offered no resistance to Valerie's belief in all that's good about life.
In the weeks and even months that followed, Valerie basked in the happiness of having her Bunny — her nighttime companion, the daily guardian of her bedroom, her unerringly faithful friend. Who was I to throw a damper on the wonders of life? Grace happens. Bliss happens. Bunnies return.
Traffic was moderately heavy. About a half-hour into our trip, when we were almost to Manhattan, Valerie exclaimed, "I forgot Bunny!"
I said, "What do you mean?"
"I left Bunny in the airport."
"Where in the airport?"
"In the ladies' room, I think."
"Oh, Val," I said. "It's already been a half-hour. Hundreds of people have gone in and out of that bathroom. Bunny's gone."
"No," she said, on the verge of a great cry, "we've got to go back and get Bunny."
I carefully explained that even if we returned to the airport immediately, there was little chance that her stuffed rabbit would still be there. If we asked the driver to turn around and go back, our ride would cost three times as much and we would miss meeting my sister. If someone had turned in Bunny to a lost and found, whenever we returned to search for him would make no difference.
Logic was earning me no points, and more miles had passed. I made a parental decision. We were going to continue riding to Manhattan. Misconnecting with my sister (these being pre-cell phone days for us) would be one too many disasters in the same morning. Valerie broke into audible sobs. I felt I could console her as I had done successfully so many times before, but this, it dawned on me, was an unprecedented situation. To my dismay, she continued to weep, uncontrollably, for the rest of the ride.
We arrived in Manhattan, met my sister — Valerie's only aunt — and Valerie was noticeably happier. We made our way to the top of the Empire State Building. Then, looking at the rain-covered, bird's-eye view of the nation's biggest city, Valerie couldn't overcome losing Bunny. She resumed her sobbing.
One long elevator ride later, we found a bank of phone booths on the ground floor of the building. On the phone, Valerie explained to her mother what had happened. I called La Guardia Airport and discovered there was no all-in-one phone number. I was seeking to find someone, anyone, who could hunt for the bunny. I shoved in an endless round of quarters. My stress was building as one call after another yielded no results, and the room in which we stood seemed to become busier and noisier. Valerie was still distraught.
I left as many messages as I could to airport and airline officials far and wide. Then I explained to Valerie that people were searching for Bunny all over the airport. I attempted every legitimate maneuver I could conjure up to take her mind off the search. We walked through the first-floor shops. We watched a band play in the lobby.
I came to realize that the grief Valerie felt for Bunny was the same emotion adults feel when they lose a loved one. Still, when we took a picture in front of a lobby replica of the building itself, Valerie composed herself and broke out a toothy grin. I could tell she was trying to be brave and to enjoy the trip despite her loss. It was important, however, to honor Valerie's feelings: that losing Bunny was unthinkable. I didn't want her to suppress her feelings for the sake of approval by grown-ups.
We were to depart the city on Sunday morning, and I promised Valerie we would look for Bunny first thing at the airport. I could picture her mother who, unbeknownst to Valerie, was frantically searching for a Bunny replacement. Sue found and called the manufacturer about the stuffed animal, but the company simply didn't make them anymore. It was a valiant effort, although I already knew that no other toy could replace Bunny. Like a hopeful child, I too wanted to believe we would find him.
Saturday passed rather well. Valerie broke into sobs once in the late morning and once in the evening, deeply lamenting the loss of Bunny. Our day was filled with the sights and sounds, and smells, of the city. We took the full city tour, climbed to the top of "Miss Liberty," and picnicked in Central Park just south of the reservoir.
Sunday morning finally came. We bade my sister farewell and rode to the airport hours before our flight, so early that the long corridors were nearly empty. It was a huge airport with construction in progress and not so easy for retracing steps.
We finally found and checked the bathroom where Bunny had last been seen. No Bunny. Then we examined countertops, ledges, luggage carts, and seemingly every place that a toy rabbit could hide.
We asked the first airport employee we saw where to find lost objects. He pointed us down a long hall in the next building. We walked for quite a stretch — it had to be nearly a ten-minute hike — but for Valerie it was no labor. We were on the Bunny trail, and nothing else mattered. Secretly, I was dreading the possibility that Bunny was gone forever. I knew we were running out of options.
When we reached what seemed to be our destination, it appeared less than promising. Through a crack in the door, we could see a light on in a small, dingy room where apparently dust mops feared to tread. We walked in to find no one there. Then, a woman emerged from a door in the back of the room.
Valerie described the situation at length, and the lady said she'd do what she could. She went back through the same door from which she had come. Valerie followed her to where she could see down a small hallway-like closet. The woman walked a few paces to some metal shelves. She picked up the object most resembling Valerie's description but grimaced slightly, unsure if this was the vauled prize. Then Valerie shouted, "THERE'S BUNNY!" Sure enough, Bunny had been "resting" on one of the shelves.
The woman handed over the toy rabbit to an ecstatic young girl. I was stupefied. I am a positive thinker by nature and had been hoping for the best but preparing for the worst. If that shelf had been bereft of Bunny, undoubtedly some of the real work of fatherhood would surely have followed.
In my newfound glee, I thought to myself, "This is like a storybook ending. We lost; we found. Whew!" Would she have otherwise dreaded New York or plane trips or airports forevermore? Would our bond have been weakened?
We strode sprightly from the dingy room to an airport now buzzing with life. Passengers had started arriving. Vendors had opened up shop. Porters were handling luggage. Vending machines and pushcarts and luggage carousels made their merry mechanical noises.
We phoned in the spectacular news to Val's mom, who seemed equally elated. We had nearly two hours to kill, but on such a special morning it didn't matter. My apple spice muffin and Valerie's plain bagel yielded abnormally high levels of edible contentment.
On the return flight, Valerie clung to Bunny with an intensity I hadn't previously witnessed. The one time she went to the restroom, she told me to hold Bunny "with both hands" until she got back.
When we landed, her mother greeted us at the airport as if we had made our way back from across the Atlantic. Sue had heroically located a substitute rabbit from a local vendor that looked somewhat like the first one. Valerie named the second stuffed rabbit "Sunny," as in "Sunny Bunny," and to this day, six years later, she has both of them, though Bunny is still, by far, her favorite.
Probably every other parent has a "Bunny" story. Nine times out of ten, you aren't going to find that rabbit again. Nine times out of ten, it's going to be a sad story. This one turned out sublime. Days following our New York trip, I talked with friends about the episode, and one said, "Look, she's seven years old. Let her believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and that stuffed animals stay faithful to their owners. She'll have different experiences soon enough." So I offered no resistance to Valerie's belief in all that's good about life.
In the weeks and even months that followed, Valerie basked in the happiness of having her Bunny — her nighttime companion, the daily guardian of her bedroom, her unerringly faithful friend. Who was I to throw a damper on the wonders of life? Grace happens. Bliss happens. Bunnies return.
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