She didn’t like him at first.
No, in fact she downright hated him.
She’d yell at me to take him out of her room, that he scared her, that she didn’t like his oversized teeth.
“But Natalie,” I said. “He’s friendly. He wouldn’t hurt you.”
“I don’t YIKE him,” Natalie argued.
So I’d scoop him up and take him away. I’d sit him down on the floor in the living room. In the morning I’d watch Natalie check him out. She’d poke his nose, pat his fur, and squeeze his foot.
And then one day it happened:
“I yike him now,” Natalie said proudly. She carried him in his arms, a big smile on her face.
I smiled down at the thing that used to be my friend when I was a little girl. (Yup. I remember begging my parents for him.)
“Isn’t he great?” I asked.
“Yup,” Natalie agreed. “But he still can’t sleep in my room.”
Oh well. Baby steps.
(And please tell me that people remember this monster. He’s from a show that aired in the 80s called My Pet Monster.)