One of my favourite Twitter accounts is @LostTeddyBear, a virtual lost and found box for furry friends. It’s comforting to know someone out there takes comforters as seriously as I do.
When Josie was still swaddled in pastel stripes, her ID tag swimming on an earthworm pink, wrinkled ankle no bigger than my index finger, my friend came to visit.
Brigid, who was flower girl at our wedding, had chosen something special for Josie: a white, whisper soft rabbit shaped like a sugar-glider with knots for paws and grey stitched eyes to match its satin ribbon.
This rabbit was one of many generous gifts we received in those first days. It was shoved into a large duffle bag when we left hospital, buckled her into the capsule and carried her across the threshold into our new reality as parents.
As the weeks crawled by, it became apparent that Josie was not fond of sleeping. Her shrill newborn cries penetrated the suburban stillness of 3am.
We tried everything. Wrap and rock. Shush and pat. Milk and burp. Lullabies and white noise. Pacing, driving, strollering—no joy.
Then one day, we cracked it. She needed something between those disproportionately long fingers, something to hold, something like—“where’s that thing Brigid brought?” We reached into the duffle bag, shrugged off late-thank-you-note guilt and plucked out the mollusk-like rabbit.
The result was immediate. From then on, the rabbit became known as Sleeping Bunny.
Sleeping Bunny grew greyer, his soft fur mottled by my daughter’s constant touch. She would take his hand in hers, kneading the knots like dumpling dough.
He came everywhere with us, even to a photo shoot with the Australian Women’s Weekly. At airports, I’d run through my usual checklist: “Headcount. Passports. Tickets. Sleeping Bunny.”
The more mobile Josie became, the more anxious we were that we’d lose him, so I went about finding a duplicate.
Extensive research showed SB to be a limited edition; a rare breed of sibling-deficient rabbits. We called the manufacturer, badgered friends with kids born the same year and trawled op-shops. Then one day—eureka—a random eBay search struck gold.
Backup Bunny made his way to us in a post pack all the way from London. He had been described as gently-loved, but looked brand new to me. I tried to rough him up a bit before throwing him into circulation. I washed him with new black socks and rubbed at his paws to replicate scruffiness, but it was no use. Maybe gently-loved meant Teflon-coated?
Just four weeks later SB2 was enlisted for service.
It was bedtime after immunisation day. This one had been a trying, two-jab affair. I dressed Josie in her nightie, picked a story and went to find Sleeping Bunny.
I upended handbags, stripped beds and disemboweled the car. Nada.
“When was the last time you saw him?” asked my frazzled husband.
“This morning at the GP.”
Our wingman was MIA. I tried to glide over it by reading a third story until, “where’s Sweeping Bunny, Mummy?”
Enter: Backup Bunny.
I rubbed him on my jeans, dimmed the lights and handed her the snowy imposter who could’ve been cast in a Napisan commercial.
She took him into her hands, rubbed an ear discerningly and stopped, staring up at me. The bottom lip swelled, quivered and fell.
Cover blown. I repeat, cover blown.
“Where’s Sweeping Bunny?” She handed me the limp understudy.
“He had a bath. Isn’t he soft?”
“Mummy fix it?”
“Well…”
“Mummy. Fix. It.”
Days passed. An under-loved menagerie of soft toys invaded her sleeping space.
She soon forgot. Denial, probably. But I was stricken.
I called the GP clinic, they hadn’t seen him. I contemplated a Facebook page—would a grey ribbon campaign be overkill?
The text from my hairdresser came a week later. “Did Josie leave little white rabbit behind last week?”
“OMG!!!!” I replied. “YES!!!! WHERE ARE YOU? I’M COMING!!!!”
“JOSIE,” I shrieked, running into her bedroom, arms outstretched, relief flooding my veins, “we’ve found Sleeping Bunny!”
She pulled out of my embrace. “Mummy do a puzzle?”
He was my crutch, not hers.
