Yes, it's a little baby girl, sleeping, with her butt hanging out of her onesie. Somewhere out in the universe, there's a matching one in blue, a baby boy and my brother's birth info. (I don't know if he still has his.)
I don't know if she was some sort of hospital parting gift or a gift from a friend of relative, but I have always treasured her and have carried her with me for all these years. Once I moved out of my parents' house (when I got married at 18), she's been with me. The only time I didn't have her was about 4 months in late 1981 / early 1982, after I moved to California and had to get myself settled. My mom held her for me until I had a place for her, and she had strict instructions to pack her properly so she would survive the journey.
When we packed up the condo in Sunnyvale to move here, she got put away for safe keeping until we had settled in here... and then I couldn't find her. And I was worried that the movers had lost her and other important stuff in one box.
Lo and behold, DH was doing his new year cleaning and pulled out a plastic bin. "It's got albums and pictures and stuff," he said rather casually, so I didn't rush to go through it. I finally did while I was in the thick of the last cold, and - oh joy! oh rapture! - there she was!
She's a little ragged around the edges (yes, I'm referring to me, too) with some chips and obvious places where either the original glue or replacement glue has discolored. But she's mine - actually, I tend to think of her as 'me.'
Weird, isn't it? You know when people ask questions like "if there was a fire, what would you grab as you ran out"? Besides grabbing DH and some yarn (okay, a lot of yarn), I'd take her. I mean, me.
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