Come Back, Little Purple Dinosaur, Come Back

She bursts into our room and throws herself face first onto the bed between My Love and me. Between the mucus-filled sobs, she wails. Her body bares no visible wounds, no blood, no bruises.

A minute or so earlier, I had kissed Thing 1 good night, leaving her in the glow of the nightlight resembling a sugar-encrusted pink daisy that has enveloped her dreams since age 4. It had seemed to be a routine end to a routine midsummer's day.

She wants something but her words are muffled in the comforter and mattress. My Love and I look at each other, lost, and shrug.

Thing 1's only other spontaneous meltdown came roughly two years ago to the date. We had just finished a bedtime story when, without warning, she burst. She didn't want to go back to school in a few weeks. She didn't want to be different and hated and weird.

First grade had been exceptionally rough for a girl who had loved kindergarten so dearly. Only one classmate from the previous year was among the other 22 in her homeroom. A bully refused to assign her a role in the game of "family" they all played among the multi-colored slides and damp wood chips every day at recess. Someone had started rumors about why she wore sunscreen and floppy hats even during the New England winter.

"I want to be normal," she cried that night three years ago. It was the first and still the only time I had ever heard those say those words.

We start rubbing her back and asking her what's wrong tonight. She sits up a bit, her face red and swollen.

"I want Barney!" she wails.

My wife and I lock eyes. "Who?"

"I want Barney!" she cries again.

"Barney? The purple dinosaur?"

My 9-year-old girl, the aspiring musical diva and fashion maven, weeks away from fourth grade, flops down again but in cinematic slow motion.

"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees," she says and disappears into the comforter.

Barney.

He was 10 inches of evil purple and green plush. What made him particularly satanic was a little button, hidden under the overstuffed polyester belly, that when pushed pierced the ears with warped musical plunks and saccharine:

"I love you.
You love me.
We're a happy family.
With a great big hug
and a kiss from me to you,
won't you say you love me, too?"

Barney was a fixture in Thing 1's early years. Our favorite game with him took place on the living room floor with me imitating his doofy whine as I made his stubby arms stack blocks that would, when high enough, inevitably tumble down on his prehistoric noggin. It brought each of us delight, but for different reasons.

"Sweetie," I say, "do we even have your Barney anymore?"

"I gave it to Mrs. K," she sobs back. "For her new baby."

Then it all came clear.

Mrs. K was her kindergarten teacher and, three years later, still Thing 1's favorite. When Mrs. K became pregnant last year, Thing 1 volunteered to give the new baby her Barney. This, to me, was an amazing act of charity … toward everyone, including me. For several years, Barney had been relegated to bottom of the basement toy box, only to be heard from when some bigger, heavier, more popular toy landed on top of him, forcing us to hear him gasp for unrequited affection through an ocean of plastic and double-A batteries.

Tonight, while Thing 1 scarfed down thin-crust pizza with her best friend's family during an evening out, she had seen her old kindergarten teacher in the restaurant.

And her baby.

And Barney.

And life as it once was.

"I have Mrs. K's e-mail address," I say. "Do you want me to ask her if you can have it back?"

"Noooooooooooo!" she moans. "I want Barney!"

"Then I'll e-mail her."

"Nooooooooooo! I want Barney!"

This continues for 20 or 30 minutes. We reason. We rationalize. We beg. She finally calms enough so My Love can escort Thing 1 to her room and settle her in.

How does one give back childhood innocence without taking it from another? I wonder. Does mending one heart always mean breaking another? And how much will this all cost me in the end?

My Love comes back in and we ponder and we theorize and we deconstruct our little universe in search of meaning and truth.

Then my wife says plainly, "She said she'd be OK if Daddy bought her another Barney."

In a few days, when the plain brown box arrives, I shall discreetly hand it to my daughter. There will be no acknowledgment, just silence, until she is upstairs, alone in her room, with the door closed and time standing still.