Caution: do not cross this line. Caution: don’t light your hair on fire. Caution: do not bring your stuffed animals into the bathroom at three a.m.

It was just another Saturday night. I was in my pink Hello Kitty PJs, with that typical fluffy baby blanket wrapped around my shoulders, a plastic duck clasped in my hand. Mom and Dad were on the couch, eating something they described as, “No, no, Sydney! Little kids can’t eat spicy stuff!” Whatever that was supposed to mean. I was staring at the TV with Dad when something started exploding on TV. Mom immediately stiffened, nudged Dad, and when he didn’t respond, she tugged me away ferociously.

“????????????” Do you want a surprise?

No, I wanted to watch TV. I brightened though - perhaps she was going to let me watch Sesame Street or Barney with the old TV.

At that moment, it felt like my heart was climbing up the tree in the backyard, and then, as we stopped in front of the closet, my heart lost its grip and went tumbling down, thumping ungraciously onto the grass.

She opened the door, sending a bunch of old boxes teetering down. Among them was a colorful, cardboard box, with Sesame Street characters. Mom bent down and picked it up, grinning. I straightened, peering to see what the box held.

He was held down by plastic bands, but in spite of being in bondage, he was smiling from cheek to cheek. His black pupils seemed to glint brightly, and held the glare of the crystal chandelier above. His blue fur looked so, so soft. He reminded me of this character from Sesame Street, though I couldn’t remember who exactly.

I instinctively reached for the box, and Mom handed it over willingly.

“Can I open it?” I asked hopefully. She nodded, yes.

I tore the box, ripping it open, until I got to the treasure. Mom returned with red scissors and cut the bands, releasing him.

“???????” she asked. Do you know who he is? I shook my head. “It starts with a C,” she hinted. C...c...Cookie Monster! Of course!

“Cookie Monster!” I exclaimed. She beamed, pleased.

“Now, you go play with Cookie Monster and have fun, okay? And remember, take good care of him so that he won’t be sad!”

Yeah. I had lots of fun, and took great care of my little friend. He watched Sesame Street with me and we shared chocolate chip cookies. I wrapped him in a blanket and gave him a bed. I talked to him at night. His smile stayed from cheek to cheek. Everything was great…

...Until I turned eight, became afraid of the dark, and had to go to the bathroom ALONE one night.

Pictures of monsters and gleaming eyes flashed through my head, as I tossed and turned under the covers. It was 3:00 am. I had to use the bathroom. So. Bad. I wished that Mom and Dad still kept those Princess Pull-Ups on hand, but I was out of luck. I had no choice but to go to the bathroom. By myself.

I got out of bed and slipped on my pink robe. Then, without weighing the pros and cons (you can’t really blame me; it was 3 in the morning), I picked up Cookie and hugged him, tip toeing quickly into the bathroom. I shivered as my feet hit the cold marble tiles, but I had to keep going, or my bladder would burst. The stories of monsters under the bed haunted me, and my heart beat faster.

Cookie will protect me, I thought.

I reached the toilet, sat down, flushed. Then, as I started to re-tie my robe, I felt Cookie slip out of my hand. Panicking, I watched helplessly as he
    tumbled
              down

into the waiting toilet. Its sharp laughter rang through the bathroom, echoing, or so it seemed. Without thinking (again), I reached down swiftly and rescued him before he could drown.

Okay, you don’t really think I was going to let a toilet-water-covered stuffed animal onto my bed, right? Because though I did drop him, I wasn’t that stupid of an eight-year old.

No, I didn’t hug him after that. Instead, I went to the sink, squeezed some soap onto the poor guy, and gave him a nice, long, cold bath. When I was sure I did a good job, I fumbled around for the hair dryer and turned it on, hot air blasting onto the soaked body.

When I got back in bed, it was 4:45. The process of going to the bathroom took an hour and forty-five minutes. And I had school tomorrow. But as long as Cookie was safe, it didn’t matter.

Every story has some kind of moral, some kind of lesson. I guess mine should too. The moral of this story is to never bring your stuffed animal with you to the bathroom at night. Or during daytime. Just don’t, because sadly, they don’t have services for emergencies like this. Your stuffed animals also don’t deserve to be dropped into the toilet. How would you feel if that were you? Just take my advice and love them, even though they’ve fallen into the toilet.