Oberon is my favorite bunny. He was an Easter present my mom my freshman year of college, and is less than a foot tall, and lavender. For most of my life, I believed devotion to a particular stuffed animal was for little kids, which I was not (this did not stop me from hoarding stuffies; I just had to love them all equally). I had realized that none of the grownups I knew carried around stuffies, and so set myself the goal of doing the same.
Other indicators of adulthood were: always eating my vegetables, not having nightmares, being scared of the dark, or kicking my brother. The privileges of adulthood were quite clear because the grownups I knew stayed up late, read all kinds of books and didn’t have to fight bigger kids for time on the tire-swing–little did I know about grant proposals and scholarship competitions.
My vision of adulthood has matured a little: I have learned that I get to decide how I see my insides and, most of the time, define what I means for me to be grownup. My younger self would not buy this: she would note that I refuse to eat asparagus, keep a flashlight under my bed, and carried Oberon more than 8000 miles in my carry-on to Doha, Qatar. She would doubt my commitment to grownup-hood. But she would love Oberon: