Hopkins B. Frogington

When I turned one, my Aunt Judy gave me a stuffed frog for my birthday. Or Christmas. Since those two events are only two days apart, it hardly matters. The important part is the frog. Aunt Judy and my mom both love frogs, and I think Aunt Judy saw this guy in a store and thought, “OOOOHHHH, Danielle needs to have him.”

Little did she know what she was doing.

Hopkins B Frogington*… also known as Hoppy – became my constant companion. I went NOWHERE without him. And when I say nowhere, I mean … NOWHERE. Not even the bathroom. (Which is how he came to take an unexpected dip in the toilet once, and then had an adventure in the washing machine. We don’t talk about that much. It’s too traumatizing.)

It’s likely that most people outgrow their childhood buddies of the stuffed variety. That would be normal.

I have never pretended to be normal.

I am one of those people who likes to nest. I unpack my suitcase in hotel rooms. I personalize spaces. So when I travel, Hoppy comes too, because I can’t rest my head anywhere he isn’t. As a result, he’s very well traveled. When I was a kid, he went to camp, and to Virginia, DC, Florida, Ohio, New York City and everywhere in between.

Then he went to college.

To be honest, by the time we were old enough to go to college, he looked a little … sad. He used to be a plush toy. As in, fluffy. At 18, he was suffering from mild baldness.

But still handsome, I thought.

He went to college. And then he went to grad school. And then he lived in Boston, and Portland, Maine, and North Berwick again. We did some more travelling – Rhode Island and Seattle and San Francisco. I had to travel with co-workers, and room with co-workers, and I had a moment of “I’m a professional woman in my 20s and I’m going to pull a mangy stuffed frog out of my suitcase?”

And then I thought, HELLS YES, I’m going to.

So I did.

I moved in with my future ex-husband. So did Hoppy. The future ex-husband, who was used to Hoppy’s presence, said, “Does he need to sleep with us?”

“Can he sit on an end table?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay, then.”

He went to England with me. Thank goodness he did, too, because I had the worst case of food poisoning EVER while I was there and needed something to help me to feel like I would make it through.

That’s been his job. He’s a reminder that some things in life are constant. Oh sure, we’re both a little worse for the wear – who isn’t? – but we make it through, and we are loved.

I married future ex-husband. We went on our honeymoon.

Guess who came with?

Who doesn't enjoy a tropical beverage?

He moved out of the future ex-husband's house with me. He moved to North Carolina with me. I will admit that, shamefully, I had a moment of abject depression when I was packing for North Carolina when I thought about tossing him. Nothing is permanent, I thought. No one loves anything forever. I walked to the dumpster and then -- couldn't do it . I had a little meltdown that probably looked VERY weird to anyone who happened to be passing by – a grown woman, clutching a stuffed frog that has DEFINITELY seen better days and sobbing. Oh well.

We both went back up to the apartment.

I would never have forgiven myself.

As I type, Hoppy sits on my bed. I like to imagine that when I'm not around he and Bert the Farting Hippo, and Wally Monster and the Transformers in my office have fun, like in Toy Story. Only Hoppy gets to be the ringleader and the mastermind. After all, he's 35 years old.

He doesn't look his best, I guess. Neither do I. He's LITERALLY a little tattered and torn. He's been sewn back together and he's worn out in spots. Me too. But we're both still here, and that's the most important thing.

We're both still here.

And the adventures continue.

*His name was only Hoppy for a long time. Then I decided that a distinguished elder statesman such as himself probably had a longer name with more gravitas. If you're wondering what the B stands for? Forget it. He won't tell.