When Teddy Cried

Pihu and Teddy went out to see the rain.

And — oh no! — Teddy slipped out of Pihu’s arms, and fell, splash, right in the puddle.

Poor Teddy. Wet ears. Wet tummy. Wet everywhere.

Pihu looked at Teddy’s face.

“Teddy is crying,” said Pihu. “Teddy is cold and sad.”

Now — how do you help a cold, wet, sad someone? Pihu knew. Pihu knew exactly, because when Pihu is cold and wet and sad, somebody helps her, always, every time.

First: a warm towel. Rub, rub, rub. Ears, tummy, toes. “There,” said Pihu, just the way Ma says it.

Then: dry clothes. Teddy wore the doll’s yellow shirt. It was a bit small. Teddy didn’t mind.

Then: something warm to sip. Pihu brought her toy cup. “Careful,” said Pihu, “it’s hot,” even though it was pretend. Teddy took little pretend sips.

Then: the blanket, tucked all around, snug as snug.

And then the most important medicine of all — the one that works on teddies, on babies, on Mas and Papas, on everyone in the whole world:

Pat, pat, pat. Soft on the back. Pat, pat, pat.

“Better?” whispered Pihu.

Teddy’s face looked better. Warm. Dry. Sleepy.

Ma peeked in from the door and saw the towel, the yellow shirt, the cup, the blanket, the pat-pat-pat — her own whole medicine, learned by heart by someone small.

“Is Teddy all right?” Ma whispered.

“Teddy was sad,” said Pihu. “I knew what to do.”

And she did one more pat, the softest one, and Teddy fell asleep — and somewhere inside the hug, so did Pihu.