The Sock Monkey and The Robot

When I was three months old I received a Sock Monkey as a gift. Most likely it was my very first Christmas present. Some children have pacifiers. Some have security blankets. I had monkey. He went everywhere I went and he did everything I did. If I had to visit the doctor for a check up or vaccination monkey had to come along. When the doctor examined me I would insist that he examine monkey to. If I received a shot so did he.

As two turned into three and three into four my mother was sure some new toy would replace that monkey. She grew tired of washing him after a day or two of being drug threw the dirt by me. However, no matter what new gift I received monkey remained my one true love.

Then it happened, Christmas 1965, I stumbled sleepily into the living room wondering what magic Santa had performed the night before. The stockings were overflowing with knick-knacks but my young eyes had already zeroed in on the gift of all gifts.

Between the fireplace and the Christmas tree stood a three-foot tall robot. It was love at first sight. I was struck dumb. I slowly approached the robot with a mixture of awe and trepidation. I reached out a trembling hand and touched its arm. My mother reached behind the robots head and flipped a switch and it slowly began to roll forward. Its eyes flashed red and a rumble came from deep within its chest. At the push of another button its right arm raised and fired plastic missiles. Another button and the left arm raised and fired ping-pong balls.

I was so lost in playing with my robot that I do not to this day remember opening any other presents. I am sure I did but I have no idea what they were or what I did with them. That afternoon my best friend M. came over to compare gifts like kids are prone to do. When I saw him approaching, I took robot to greet him. The first thing M. saw when I opened the door was robots red flashing eyes as it rolled toward the door. He took one look at robot and ran screaming for his mother. From that day forward M. would not enter the house unless I assured him that robot was locked in the closet.

So my mother aided by Santa finally found a gift that came to mean as much to me as monkey. The battle wasn't over though. She kept insisting that now that my brother was two years old I should pass monkey on to him. Was she kidding if I gave monkey to my brother he would not last a month. I pleaded and I begged but my mother finally insisted and took monkey from me and gave him to my brother.

I was wrong about how long monkey would last in his hands, I predicted one month but monkey lasted three. One winter's day he left him outside and that night it rained cats and dogs. By morning monkey was no more.

For close to forty years I refused to let my mother forget her role in the destruction of sock monkey. Finally, she grew so sick of hearing me moan, groan and complain that she presented me with a new monkey for my fortieth birthday. One she made with her own two hands. Don't tell old monkey but I think like new monkey best.

As for robot his fate is unknown. I played with him for several years before he was relegated to the back of the closet with the other forgotten toys. For some reason to this day when I think of him I see cracked and tattered robot on top of a rubbish heap with single red tear glistening on a plastic cheek.