Samantha Nyland

I had two stuffed Elmos before the age of three. According to my mother, I lost the first Elmo off the cart in a grocery store, and he was to never be seen again. Apparently my tantrum was so tremendous that it became necessary to go out and purchase another googly-eyed red monster. I was only a toddler, therefore I never noticed the difference between my replacement Elmo and the old one that vanished amongst the aisles of produce and dry goods.

My second Elmo, the one I still have in my possession, originally came to me as a fluffy, bright red doll that had proportionally-giant white plastic eyeballs, with a plump orange felt nose sewn just below.

After many years of hugging and cuddling, Elmo has not aged gracefully. His fluffy fur has become completely matted down, making him morbidly slender, as if he hasn’t had a proper meal in over a decade. His black painted pupils have also chipped away from perfect circles to droopy, crescent moons, and the whites of his eyes are permanently jaundiced. His ample orange nose has even shriveled up like a rotten peach.

When I was six-years-old, my sister, and I were playing with my cousin in her bedroom when I came across the most perfect set of white overalls for my Elmo doll. The overalls even had a little pocket on the front (perfect for sneaking a small goldfish cracker for “emergencies”) and were decorated with an embroidered patch of Elmo himself. My cousin happily gave me the tiny piece of clothing knowing that it would be ideal for my Elmo. I was ecstatic that he would finally no longer be in the nude.