I don’t remember when my warrior princess’ hand fell off. She was down to one leg by then, but she hadn’t lost the other yet. When I met her, she was buried in a box slated for donation. Someone had mistakenly hauled her out with the detritus of a 30 year school psychology career when my predecessor left.
It’s easy to confuse tools of my trade for toys. They are. I also have work dinosaurs, and a work Minion fart gun. Warrior princess was part of a set of action figures used to test play and interaction skills in children being evaluated for autism. I may be giving away trade secrets, but this sliver of the test goes like this: “Here kid play with these toys.” I dump out a zip lock bag full of toys and figures and then three or more adults stare casually at the child and record what happens.
When her leg first detached, my students’ reactions were fascinating. Their response to my one-legged lady became my own test within a test. (Don’t tell the people who standardized it.)
Did they inquire about her? Did her missing limb bother them? Did they construct a story about it? Did they attempt to fix her? Did they ignore her in favor of the toy wrench or shovel that are also part of this section?
Sometimes, warrior princess was sent straight to the hospital in a toy ambulance half her size. Sometimes, an industrious kiddo would try a DIY repair with the toy wrench. Sometimes, her brokenness was too upsetting to bear and she’d be cast aside.
This lasted for years. Most children I have evaluated for autism have met her. I would venture some of my colleagues who regularly observe me administer this assessment think that the broken doll is intentional. She’s an institution.
But at some point, she lost her other leg and her hand and became just too broken to be of use. I kept her because I’m a weirdo and because I’d challenge anyone to hang out with the same humanoid object for a decade and refrain from anthropomorphizing it just a touch. I replaced her with a supple, bendy Wonder Woman. In retrospect, that might make me a bad feminist.
I tossed the chunks of my broken friend into the bottom of my already too-full work bag.
And I forgot.
I didn’t immediately think of her when I discovered the broken and missing hand on one of my nativity figurines this December. Again, I’m not sure how exactly she came to be missing her right hand either, though I have at least two promising leads anytime anything is broken in my house.
You can’t leave Jesus’ mom all busted, and you certainly throw her in the trash. I wrestled with the idea of a Frankenstein-like repair on the Blessed Virgin. But for me, my warrior princess is no less holy, and the end result was something sacred made whole, so I glued it on and matched the paint.
My Christmas decorations are long gone now, whisked away with the zeal known only by those with January birthdays. But I can’t make myself pack this one up. She’s still out and March is knocking.
She’s for every day now.
She is mother’s love, but her hand has worked for so many children. She’s a tough in the softest way a warrior can be. She reminds me of the balance I seek. She reminds me of the blessings I have, and the blessings I can be. She reminds me of so many wonderful people I know.
She reminds me to be grateful that I do not have to choose.
