I’m a sucker for symbolism, and my heart melts for motifs. And F. Scott Fitzgerald masterfully employs these literary devices to illustrate the frivolity of godlessly pursuing an ever-elusive American Dream in The Great Gatsby. The Green Light…the Valley of Ashes…and my favorite, the Eyes of Doctor T.J. Eckleburg…these images are indelibly etched in my mind, and I’m pretty sure that was Fitzgerald’s intent.

And sometimes, certain real-life symbols become interwoven throughout the fabric of our existence. For me, a prominent motif has been none other than a stuffed penguin that I bought for my daughter the first time she became ill with a nasty stomach bug. I went to the store, bought her some Gatorade, popsicles, Tylenol…and a cute, cuddly penguin wearing a crown. There were other Stuffies available, but I felt that only flightless bird royalty was acceptable for the febrile queen. So with barf bag in one hand and the penguin clutched tightly in the other, she fell asleep in her fortress of blankets and electrolyte beverages.

But ever since that time, Princess Penguin has been ignominiously shoved in the bottom of a laundry basket, largely neglected and essentially forgotten. And in my mind, this silly penguin has become symbolic of my inability to help my daughter through some of her hard days. I desire so desperately to help her navigate her frustrations, provide her comfort, and guide her through the angsty labyrinths of escalated emotion that sometimes prevent her from thriving. But for various reasons, a disconnect has often persisted. As the penguin lies facedown in the laundry basket, I prostrate myself in similar pose, praying for God to help me.

But last night, seemingly out of nowhere, my daughter remembered Princess Penguin. She frantically introduced the penguin to all the other Stuffies on her bed and quickly began debating on whether or not she should have a name other than Princess. Apparently the Squishmallow and Pikachu may have to navigate some personal insecurities about the “special new penguin having a crown” while no one else possesses this dignified accoutrement. I’ll let them sort out that conflict; my daughter is masterful at creating happy endings to her beautiful fantasies. But for me, I hope that Princess Penguin’s emergence from the laundry basket is poetically symbolic of our realities beginning to merge. I hope I’m better able to help her as time goes on, because I want nothing more than to be on the Guest List for my daughter’s life as this beautiful story unfolds