Ode to Toy Story

Or how I finally gave it up to keep my children happy.
And, no, not that! Ya perv!
I had a bear that was given to me by my parents as a wee hellion. His name is Bobie. Don't ask me. I don't remember how he got that name. I loved him, mauled him, cried on him, and slept with him until I got married. And even then, I still tried.
The Man frowned upon stuffed animal bed partners.
So Bobie was relegated to a shelf to sit.
Last week, seeing my youngest heathen lugging around various stuffed animals, I decided the time had come to pass the torch.
I took him from the shelf, hugged him, whispered that I loved him enough to give him a really great new person, and handed him over to my very excited 2 1/2 year old daughter.
Who hugged him, danced him, slept with him, and renamed him . . . Poopie.
The indignity.
But I know, in true Toy Story fashion, that I saw a little half smile on his worn mouth, heard a sigh as he settled down for a nights rest in my daughter's oh-so-loving strangle hold. There is a bounce in his bear step as she dances him around or tells him baby stories.
My Bobie is happy in his new life as Poopie.
And I've passed a small portion of my old childhood off to my daughter to treasure.
But now I'm stuck with just The Man in my bed, and he smells worse than a ratty, 1970's era stuffed toy ever could.
Bobie never passed gas the entire time I slept with him.
The Man passes it every night I have slept with him.
Oh the things we do in the name of love.