There are three key characters in our family story that merit mention: Lamby, Monkey and Bunny. No comprehensive tale relative to our younger of the kiddos would be complete without some reference to his tag-along loveys.

To the world, these tattered stuffed animals may be dingy, faded, slightly torn and cranberry juice-stained.

And they are; make no doubt.

But to my baby boy who’s nearly 2, that description won’t do– those three little loveys are the loveys of his life.

Lamby, a soft, slightly scuffed sheep that in fact bears the embroidered name of our older son in thin, blue, near-transparent fibers, is the star player.

A little over a year ago, our youngest found the wee lamb at the bottom of our older boy’s toy box, and the rest is eminent domain history. Our eldest never missed it or even recognized it was once his. He sleeps with toy trucks and plastic dinos bedside, after all.

Monkey, a faded brown ape with a darling, thready smile, is second in stuffie-command, our back-up when it’s time for Lamby to take a travel through the spin cycle. And Bunny is a charming little gray hare to which our boy clings when I’m getting gray hairs any time the former two go missing.

It’s an interesting hierarchy, but there you have it.

As for my husband, my mother – our boys’ caregiver by day – and me, we take loveysafekeeping very seriously. We make every possible effort to never, ever lose sight of those security blankets. And yet, the loveys have each been on fairly grand adventures, Toy Story-style. I’m astounded, really, as to how we’ve managed to keep them together in the long run.

Lamby once spent night in a pile of leaves outside our city’s public high school far from our house when he accompanied our family on a walk to rock the vote during election season. Literally, my mother formed a small search team to retrace their steps and locate the priceless little sheep the very next day. What an escapade that was. Talk about being on the lam.

But this past weekend proved a bit more dramatic, from a more visual point of view.

I learned a truly humbling lesson in exercising subtlety Saturday.

With a large basket of laundry on my hip that weekend morning, I reached with my other hand to quickly scoop what had become a very disheveled, icky lamb.

Lamby was strewn on the floor among cut-up fruit our boy had tossed from his high chair earlier that morning. I quietly tossed it in the hamper so as to not hamper my youngest’s playtime. He was oblivious to my mini-clean sweep, refereeing an intense battle between planes, trains and automobiles. Who was I to try to interfere? This was a great opportunity to sneak his main security blanket into a much-needed load of laundry.

Talk about a security breach.

I managed to tiptoe to the door that led to our basement washer and dryer, when my kiddo started pointing and screaming.

Glancing at the heavy basket on my hip, I noticed that Lamby wasn’t quite so discreet as I’d hoped.

He was partially dangling over the side, appearing to be waving to my son as the basket bobbed up and down, comically, almost anthropomorphically.

My son, traumatized and immediately reaching to clutch his beloved sheep, began to scream.

I couldn’t take it back. Not now. Lamby was partially smothered between layers of other dirty laundry and drippy dish towels now. I had to keep calm and carry on.

I brought my boy with me to our laundry area so I could keep an eye on him. I thought if I calmly explained just why Lamby needed a good scrubdown, he’d understand.

That was my second mistake.

The kid’s not even 2, and he’s supposed to understand the science of suds?

He watched me load everything into the washer. I offered him Monkey, I offered him Bunny. But neither were a good deterrent from what was spinning in detergent.

Neither stuffed animal would do – not while my son kept a visual on his favorite lamb.

And that led to my third mistake – not trying hard enough to block my son’s view through the circular glass into the tossing laundry.

There was Lamby, popping his head up through the pile of dirty socks and face cloths, waving again.

But at least his fleece would be once again as white as snow.

I hastily scooped up my son before he could react, but there was no pulling any wool over his eyes.

Once upstairs, he stood by the door, keeping vigil and waiting for his Lamby.

I was becoming as heartbroken as he was.

Helpless, all I could do was hold my son and rock him until he calmed down, which he did.

Eventually he was reunited with a whiter, more sanitary Lamby. Once again, all was well in the Cote household.

Lamby had gone on a great adventure again, but Mama learned a great lesson in subtlety.

Learning to mastering this art will continue to be a work in progress for me.

And there’s nothing sheepish about that.

— Michelle Cote is the art director of the Journal Tribune. She enjoys cooking, baking, and living room dance-offs with her husband, two boys and a dog. She can be contacted at mcote@journaltribune.com.