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Parenting Imperfect

December 8, 2012

Letting go can be more difficult for me than the kids


Jingle Bug’s arrival was unanticipated. The Diva was an infant and all three of us were at Target, picking up some desperately needed baby supply. She’d had enough shopping and was gearing up for a grade three snit. I grabbed the first toy I saw and handed it to her. Thus, Jingle Bug entered our lives.

He’s purple, fuzzy and flat. Along the Bug’s body are clear plastic capsules that contain bells. His flappy feet are perfect for sucking on. I’ve never seen another Jingle Bug, which is too bad because I’ve wanted to give him to other babies because he was such a big hit with ours.

Jingle Bug nearly didn’t make it home with us either because one of his tags was missing. The cashier had to call a supervisor, who had to find the right binder, while the Diva kicked off the meltdown she’d be threatening. 

Good times.

Jingle Bug is in a fair number of pictures from that time. We have a few of the Boy and the Bug as well — but they never hit it off to the same level as the Diva and the Bug did. 

While the Diva can callously put Jingle Bug in the donate pile, I can’t, even though I’m fairly certain another baby would enjoy sucking on his tender toes, after they’d been washed, of course.

I can let Paz go, with only a small sigh. Jingle Bug, however, will be moved to the box in the attic, the one next to the boxes of holiday decorations, which I should get out sooner rather than later.

Adrienne Martini is a freelance writer, instructor at the State University College at Oneonta, mom to Maddy and Cory, wife to Scott, and author of “Sweater Quest.” Her columns can be found at

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