Family legend is that when I was around a year old, my mom took me with her to the toy store while she picked out a gift for my older sister to take to a birthday party. I spotted this ordinary-looking brown stuffed bear and wanted to hold it. My mom gave it to me, thinking it would distract me while she shopped and that she’d be able to put it back on the shelf when she was done.

MISTAKE.

When she tried to take the bear away from me, I flipped out. I totally lost my poop the way only a toddler can. Within moments, the bear was covered in tears and snot. My mom realized there was no way she could put it back.

This bear – whose name is Teddy, because I’m creative like that – is a huge figure in the background of all my childhood memories. I had a lot of stuffed toys (I was one of those kids who was always rescuing strays), but Teddy was so much more than just my favourite toy. Trying to explain how important he was to me, I risk sounding like a crazy person. But I’ll try anyway.

I was utterly convinced that he was alive. All my toys were alive, but he was more alive than the others. When I try to recall what his personality was like, I only have vague memories. He was older than me. He was very wise and calm and benevolent – an anti-Winnie-the-Pooh, whom I found amusing but also kind of despised.

He knew – and I knew – that he was my favourite, but we both know this had to be kept secret from the other toys, who would have been very hurt to learn this. Sometimes I played with the others even when I really wanted to play with him, but I knew he understood.

When I was around five, my mom noticed that his felt eyes had worn away. She sewed on a pair of new eyes. Googly eyes. Seeing these googly eyes on my bear was extremely alarming. Imagine waking up tomorrow and looking over at your partner, and where their normal eyes used to be, googly eyes had appeared. Terrifying, right? But I didn’t tell my mom this, because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. So I pulled them off when no one was looking.

There was no precise moment when I realized he wasn’t alive. But here’s the thing: while I know he isn’t alive, there’s a kid part of me that still believes he is.

No, wait… that isn’t quite accurate. Let me try again.

It’s more like the part of my memory that once believed toys could be alive is still there.

This makes me wonder how belief and memory work together. Can we ever truly unbelieve the things we once wholeheartedly believed, even when the reasoning part of our brain is convinced those beliefs are untrue? Or is the unbelieving just a palimpsest over the believing? Are all our old beliefs just one thin layer away?

I don’t know. All I know is that I still have him. He’s almost pancake flat. His fur is matted and he’s still eyeless. My husband finds him creepy, so I keep him in a closet (the bear, not my husband). I can see the creepiness, when I look at my bear through neutral eyes, but I’m still offended on his behalf. Sometimes marriage is about compromises, yo.

I’ve thought about giving him new eyes, similar to those he had when he was new, but my memory of them is hazy, and I don’t want to guess and get it wrong.