Thursday, August 2, 2012


“Can you make Lambchok talk? Please?” my daughter asks in reply to my orders to “Go pee pee. Wash your hands. Brush your teeth. Put on your nightgown.”

“Yes, if you hurry,” I say.

“Lambchok” is a Lamb Chop puppet, so dubbed “Lambchok” when my daughter was a toddler. I never had the heart to correct her, so Lambchok he will always be. I once pulled up a video of the original Lamb Chop on YouTube and explained that it was Lambchok’s mother.

Lambchok sat in the corner of my daughter’s bedroom for about a year before coming to life. There was a monkey and a rabbit (who spoke in unintelligible “Lucienese”) who were early favorites. And a unicorn, who’s lost some of her sparkle, is still a beloved bedfellow.

But none have come to life like Lambchok. And none – I imagine – will have a place in her memories more than him.  Most nights, some mornings and occasionally during the day, my daughter asks me to make Lambchok talk. (There have been more than a few debates as my daughter has tried in vain to enlighten Lambchok that Mommy makes him talk. He insists that no one can make him say anything.)

Lambchok can occasionally solicit details about school happenings, when I have failed. And sometimes Lambchok says what I imagine my daughter to be thinking, so she can process the answer herself. But more often than not, Lambchok is just someone to talk to other than Mommy and Daddy. She shows him her newly painted nails. Or tells him she’s going to the museum. Or waits for him to notice her teary eyes so she can tell him about her boo boo.

Perhaps it is an only child thing. As one myself, my “Lambchok” was a doll with black hair and a sweet face named Ginny. She was not a puppet, but my mom would make her talk, creating a lifelike personality that solidified her place as my favorite doll.

Like Ginny, Lambchok has his own personality. He has a bit of attitude, actually. He’s curious, but a little whiny. Lovable, but with a definite jealous streak. He likes to snuggle, read and pet the dog when he’s not in a biting mood. He would love to go with my daughter on all her adventures, but he’s not usually allowed.
So he sits at home, awaiting her return. If she comes home and introduces him to a new stuffed friend, he says “We don’t need any more animals around here!” And she plays big sister – telling him to be nice and assuring him he will always be loved.

Amy McCall is a Marketing Manager for Texas Health Resources and Mom to one imaginative daughter.

Hearing about Lamchok made us have to go to YouTube for a blast from the past:

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