I don’t know if I’ve told this story before. I don’t think I have, but ifI have, bear with me.
I was six or seven years old. We [Mom, Dad, Sister, and I] were staying in a hotel somewhere. I don’t remember why, but the why is not important to the story. Whatever was going on, it was bedtime. As I remember, there was only one bed in the room, so Sister and I were in sleeping bags on the floor. And we were hyper, which manifested itself in the giggles.
It didn’t take long for Mom to reach her limit.
I had my beloved Talking Simba plush with me, and I gave him a hug to give me some comfort. I had given him a hug, because I was dead certain he was off.
I started to cry. Mom had been angry, she’d told us to go to sleep, not to make another sound, no more words were to be spoken, and I was positive that Mom and Dad would never ever take me anywhere again for my malfeasance. And then I realized that they were all laughing. It was okay; I wasn’t in trouble.
Simba had given us all a little reminder that, through thick and thin, we’ll always be together.