Loree Sandler

When I was very young, a cousin invited me to pick a stuffed animal from his vast collection. To everyone’s horror, I chose a large, plastic rabbit. Big Bun became my constant companion.

In a misguided effort to lighten my load, my mother presented me with a smaller, cuter version. Little Bun tucked nicely under my other arm, and two companions were better than one.

Eventually I shed the plastic pals, but my enthusiasm for bunnies did not abate. I began collecting patches, which my mom dutifully sewed onto the back, front, and sleeves of a red zip-up jacket.

Walking home from school one grim day, I passed a girl (a stranger!), wearing my prized possession.

“It didn’t fit you anymore. I had no idea you still wanted it,” said my mother, who had donated piles of old clothes to charity. The mistake could not be undone.

Live, lop eared pets, fluffy slippers with tails and ears, decorative dishware – I had it all. In a stroke of genius, my college boyfriend wooed me with the Royal Doulton Bunnykins Sleepytime figurine - two bunnies cozy in bed.

If you met me today, you wouldn’t know I had a thing for this adorable animal. But deep in my jewelry box sits a tiny gold pin with blue enamel and a diamond belly button. Not at all cute, it was a birthday gift from my grandmother, decades ago. When my mother laid eyes on it last week she said, “Well, this sums up your whole childhood.”