I've had such a tough couple of days that I'm thinking it may be time to sleep with Mr. Oatmeal. To do so, I'll need to retrieve him from the closet where he has been carefully stashed for nearly a decade.
Mr. Oatmeal came into my life during the self discovery years, spending nearly as much time as I did attending personal growth workshops. He was never out-of-place and I never felt odd having Mr. Oatmeal in tow because everyone else was clutching a transitional object.
Those who weren't clutching stuffed bears, sock monkeys or grungy feather pillows, were white-knuckling journals and pens. Those clutching journals and pens usually ended up borrowing bears midway through any workshop, regardless of its length.
This was the way things were for Inward Ho adults during the Inner Child retrieval years. And as far as I'm concerned, my sleeping with Mr. Oatmeal was far more charming and certainly much more forgivable than everyone else talking about "journaling." (Like that's a real verb.)
Mr. Oatmeal ended up in the closet during the years that marriage and divorce drop kicked me into another level of adulthood. By then, I had cats who were more-than-willing to spoon.
They still and always are, the cats, willing to spoon. I, however, am in no mood for nose whistles in the night or paws patting my face in the morning, which is why Mr. Oatmeal may be due for a night in the sack with me. Surely one night of plush bear palliative care ought to set things right.