<p>When I first read the funny/sweet/touching posts at <a href="http://mrs.flinger.us/index.php/summer06/blog_permalink/friday_flashback_time/">Mrs. Flinger</a>, <a href="http://whoorl.com/archives/816">Whoorl</a>, and <a href="http://www.mamalogues.com/2008/03/what_i_would_grab_if_my_house.html">Mamalogues</a> about their favorite childhood items I thought that it was very sweet that they actually had a tangible part of their childhood with them, because I sure didn&#39;t. I&#39;ve moved around too much for that, and <a href="http://diary.blogs.com/the_diary_of_a_reluctant_/2008/01/decluttering.html">I&#39;m pretty intense about decluttering</a>. </p>





<p>Then I remembered a certain little someone who has been patiently by my side for at least 25 years:</p>

<p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/diary/2370946719/" title="My Monchichi by R. S. M., on Flickr"><img alt="My Monchichi" class="at-xid-6a00d8341db04e53ef01310fa39882970c" height="375" src="http://www.everydaytreats.com/wp-content/uploads/6a00d8341db04e53ef01310fa39882970c-pi.jpg" width="500" /></a>

</p>

<p>I don&#39;t even remember ever not having my Monchichi - I just remember that I LOVED him when I was a little girl. It was the only toy I ever truly loved - I couldn&#39;t care less about Barbie, and other stuffed animals were just more things to put away at the end of the day.</p>

<p>But Monchihi was different. He <em>is </em>different. Just look at his face! Could you imagine throwing him out? I can&#39;t:</p>

<p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/diary/2370946385/" title="Monchichi by R. S. M., on Flickr"><img alt="Monchichi" class="at-xid-6a00d8341db04e53ef01310fa398ae970c" height="375" src="http://www.everydaytreats.com/wp-content/uploads/6a00d8341db04e53ef01310fa398ae970c-pi.jpg" width="500" /></a></p>

<p>I remember cleaning his face with rubbing alcohol (thereby rubbing off the paint on his nose and cheeks.) I remember giving him baby powder &quot;baths&quot; and dressing him in doll clothes. (The indignity!) He was always around, but I never bothered to give him a name. He was just Monchichi.</p>

<p>We left the Dominican Republic and moved to Miami when I was twelve going on thirteen. I must have outgrown him by then, because I don&#39;t remember putting him in the &quot;Toys to Give Away&quot; pile. I was so excited about our new life in the States that I packed my small bags with surprisingly little and never looked back.</p>

<p>It wasn&#39;t until I was in college and my sister came back from a trip to the Dominican Republic that Monchichi and I were finally reunited. She&#39;d stayed with our cousins, and when she saw the cheeky little monkey in my cousin&#39;s room she just had to bring him back for me. My cousin, who by then had outgrown him just like I had so many years before, couldn&#39;t have cared less. We all had a big laugh when he came out of my sister&#39;s suitcase: It was hilarious! Of course he came back to my dorm room with me. And then he was packed up and lived in a box in the basement of every house or apartment building I&#39;ve lived in since college.</p>

<p>My cousin, the one who had inherited him and given him back just to give me a laugh, died of lymphatic cancer three years ago. I didn&#39;t really know my cousin - she was just a little girl when we moved away - and we never kept in touch, but when I learned of her death the first thing I did was look for my Monchichi - our - Monchichi. I dug in the basement until I found him; he&#39;s just a stuffed monkey but he&#39;s also a connection to my past, to her life.</p>

<p>He now lives in my closet, where he greets me every morning as I stare at my clothes, trying to figure out what to wear. He&#39;s not much help in that department I&#39;ll admit, but he&#39;s great at reminding me that I must make the most out of today.</p>
