The Bear Said What?

“You can’t do anything,” said the brown teddy bear.

My then-young son tilted his head, unsure of what he’d just heard.

Sometimes “used” isn’t always the best choice.

Years ago, when my wife and I were young, broke, and newly married, gently used toys made all the sense in the world. Always good with a dollar, she’d scout resale shops for castles needing a new boy to unleash his imagination on. Or she’d find a pink Barbie-whatever for our daughter, who never knew the difference.

When you’re young, you do these things because you must.

Once, my wife brought home two electric sports cars—one for each kid. Our son got the red one; our daughter got the pink.

You know the type: plastic shells, opening doors, a driver’s seat in the cockpit, and a steering wheel. With electric motors, they can be a lot of fun.

But my wife picked them up for 25 cents each because the batteries were shot, and the owners didn’t want to spend $50 per car on replacements. So home they came with us.

Only we didn’t replace the batteries. Instead, we told the kids they needed to take turns pushing each other around the driveway.

Hours of fun for them; hours of peace and quiet for us.

Funny what you can get away with as a parent before the age of innocence pops—and reality begins to infect your influence.

Only a year or so later, our son came home from a friend’s house and asked about the cars.

“Why didn’t you let us know those cars ran on batteries?”

That ranked right up there with the day our daughter climbed into the beat-up purple minivan after elementary school.

“Why didn’t you tell me the Easter Bunny isn’t real?”

Again, innocence only lasts so long.

But back to the discouraging bear.

One day, my wife’s sister handed our son a teddy bear she’d once given her own kids. Apparently, the bear was programmed with a handful of positive, reinforcing statements. Pull the string on its back and instant inspiration poured out—an interesting concept.

That is, until our son came to us asking why the bear was telling him he couldn’t do anything.

“I mean, what’s the deal? He’s telling me I can’t do anything.”

My wife pulled the string, and sure enough, the positive bear had gone negative. As a matter of fact, the slurring of the bear’s words might have led someone to wonder if he’d been sneaking into the liquor cabinet.

Some toys age better than others, and the voice box inside the bear was exhausted, reducing its cadence to a slow drawl, with words running together.

And as you leaned in to listen, all you could think was that this bear needed an intervention. All I can figure is he was plain worn out from years of encouraging tikes.

Fortunately, our son recovered and went on to live a happy, healthy—and positive—life. The now-negative bear remains in hibernation, tucked away in a plastic storage bin.

Parenting is a journey without a playbook. Sometimes the things we thought were mistakes become the stories we remember most.

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