The Pillow Everyone Cries Into

NARRATOR (GEORGE):
The Toy Museum isn’t all hard plastic and sharp corners.
Some shelves are quieter.
Softer.
Places where the edges give way
and the labels blur a little.

Tonight, the Night Watchman has wandered away
from Barbie’s high heels and Ken’s molded hair
into a part of the museum
that feels more like a pillow aisle.

[Footsteps slow. There’s a soft rustle, like fabric against fabric.]

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Okay. This… is new to me.

NARRATOR:
The shelf in front of him doesn’t look like the stuffed animals of his childhood.
No glass eyes.
No stitched noses.
Just a row of round, squishy shapes—
cats, frogs, bears, foods,
all with the same simple recipe:
Big eyes.
Tiny smile.
Bodies like friendly moons.

Transcript

Welcome to Celebrate Creativity. This series is Conversations with Toys, and this episode is about SQUISHMALLOWS and using entitled “The Pillow Everyone Cries Into”

And as usual, let’s get the disclaimer out-of-the-way.

This podcast is a dramatization that blends historical research with fiction, satire, and imagined conversations between people, toys, and other objects. It is not a documentary and not professional advice of any kind. No character, toy, product, or brand depicted in this podcast is authorized by, endorsed by, or officially affiliated with any company, manufacturer, museum, or organization; references to specific names are for storytelling only and do not imply sponsorship or approval.

Now let's have some fun.

NARRATOR (GEORGE):
The Toy Museum isn’t all hard plastic and sharp corners.
Some shelves are quieter.
Softer.
Places where the edges give way
and the labels blur a little.

Tonight, the Night Watchman has wandered away
from Barbie’s high heels and Ken’s molded hair
into a part of the museum
that feels more like a pillow aisle.

[Footsteps slow. There’s a soft rustle, like fabric against fabric.]

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Okay. This… is new to me.

NARRATOR:
The shelf in front of him doesn’t look like the stuffed animals of his childhood.
No glass eyes.
No stitched noses.
Just a row of round, squishy shapes—
cats, frogs, bears, foods,
all with the same simple recipe:
Big eyes.
Tiny smile.
Bodies like friendly moons.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
When I was a kid, “soft toy” meant something with ears,
a nose you could pull,
and probably a stitched mouth your mother had to fix.
Barbie and Ken I knew from my sister—
they were all over her room.
But these…
Squishmallows?
Until a few years ago, I honestly thought that was a breakfast cereal.
And I’m willing to bet a lot of the folks listening
have no idea what I’m looking at either.

[A small, very gentle “boing” sound, like memory foam recovering.]

NARRATOR:
One of the plush shapes on the front row
seems to swell just a little,
as if taking a breath.

SQUISHMALLOW (voice soft, cozy, slightly sleepy):
That’s okay.
We get that a lot.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
…Great.
The pillows talk now.

SQUISHMALLOW:
Not pillows.
Not exactly.

You can sit on us.
You can sleep on us.
You can cry into us.
But we’re more like…
portable comfort zones.
We’re Squishmallows.
Nice to meet you.


NARRATOR:
He steps closer.
The one that’s talking is a plump, pastel creature—
somewhere between a bear and a marshmallow,
with tiny ears and a face like a happy doodle.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (squinting):
Let me guess.
You’ve got a name.

SQUISHMALLOW:
Of course.
Flip the tag.

NARRATOR:
He does.
Inside, in cheerful letters, it reads something like:

“Bailey loves baking cinnamon rolls, watching the rain,
and giving the best hugs after a hard day.”

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You have… a bio.

SQUISHMALLOW:
We all do.
Names, hobbies, favorite snacks, secret talents.
We’re our own little town.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Teddy just looked like Teddy.
You come with a personality printed on your birth certificate.

SQUISHMALLOW (gently teasing):
Well, that’s what happens when you’re born
in the age of social media and character wikis.
Kids like to know who we are
before they decide who we’ll be.


NIGHT WATCHMAN:
All right, help me out.
For the people listening who’ve never met one of you—
What are you?
Why do kids—and apparently some adults—
have beds full of you?

SQUISHMALLOW:
Okay.
Imagine if a traditional stuffed animal
and one of those memory-foam pillows
had a very round, very cheerful child.

That’s us.

We’re squishy.
We spring back when you squeeze us.
We come in animals, foods, fantasy creatures—
cats, cows, axolotls, avocados, dragons,
you name it.

We’re made to be hugged.
Dropped.
Piled up.
Served as emotional furniture.

And for a lot of people,
we’re also a hobby.
A collection.
A little universe.

NARRATOR:
The Watchman looks down the shelf:
rows of them,
each with a different pastel pattern,
each with a tag full of tiny backstory.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
So you’re like trading cards
you can sleep on.

SQUISHMALLOW (pleased):
Exactly.

Comfort, Anxiety, and the Simple Face

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
I get that you’re soft.
I get that you’re cute.
But there have always been soft, cute toys.

Why did you take off?

Why not just… a regular stuffed bear?

SQUISHMALLOW:
Part of it is design.

Look at my face.

NARRATOR:
He does.
Two round black eyes.
A tiny line of a smile.
No eyebrows.
No nose.
No complicated expression.

SQUISHMALLOW:
We’re intentionally simple.

Teddy has a muzzle,
a certain era baked into his features.
Dolls have eyelids and eyelashes and makeup.
Even some stuffed animals have specific expressions.

But with us,
your brain does most of the work.

If you’re happy,
you see a happy little friend.
If you’re sad,
you see someone who’s quietly there for you.

We don’t judge.
We don’t react.
We just… receive.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You’re like the world’s gentlest therapist’s couch.

SQUISHMALLOW:
We prefer “emotional beanbag,”
but yes.
And let’s be honest:
kids today—and grownups—
are carrying a lot.
School pressure.
News.
Social media.
Noise, noise, noise.

Sometimes you don’t want a toy with a storyline.
You want something you can fall into
and not explain yourself.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
I’ve seen pictures—
beds covered in you,
chairs you can’t sit in because you’re stacked three deep.
And those aren’t always kids’ rooms.

SQUISHMALLOW:
Nope.
We live in college dorms,
studio apartments,
therapists’ offices,
on the couches of people who swear they’re “too old for toys”
and then take us home anyway.

For a kid,
we might be a bedtime friend
or a prize for doing well on a test.

For a teenager,
we’re a little island of softness
in a room full of laptops and deadlines.

For an adult,
we’re often a permission slip.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
A permission slip?

SQUISHMALLOW:
To admit they’re tired.
To have something unapologetically gentle
in a life that’s supposed to look “put together.”
You don’t age out of needing to hug something.
You just get better at pretending you don’t.

NARRATOR:
He notices small signs taped under the shelf:
limited editions, retired designs, special “squads.”

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
And what about the hunting?
The rare ones, the limited runs,
the people driving across town for a specific cow?

SQUISHMALLOW (amused):
Ah yes, the quest.

There are “squads”—
groups of us by theme.
Cats, foods, mythical creatures,
seasonal releases.

Some people collect by type:
all bats, all frogs.
Some are after the rare ones:
the cow with the certain spots,
the axolotl with the right color.
They trade.
They swap.
They post pictures of us lined up on shelves
like a very cozy trophy wall.
Is it sometimes just about the chase?
Sure.
But you’d be surprised
how often the story under it is:
“I had a rough year,
and these silly round little guys
made my room feel safe again.”

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
So the brag picture—
“Look at my Squishmallow army”—
is sometimes really saying,
“Look how much softness I’ve allowed myself.”

SQUISHMALLOW:
Exactly.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You know, when I was small,
“comfort” was a worn-out blanket
and whatever stuffed animal survived the washing machine.

Barbie and Ken I remember from my sister’s room—
the Dream Car, the shoes, the drama.
But if you’d told the younger me
that people my age would someday
be buying giant pastel marshmallow animals
for their own beds—
I’d have laughed you out of the house.

SQUISHMALLOW (kindly):
What changed?

NIGHT WATCHMAN (after a beat):
We did, I guess.
The world got louder.
Busier.
Meaner in some corners.
And somewhere along the line,
“tough it out” stopped working as well.

SQUISHMALLOW:
Exactly.
Your generation was told to be stoic.
Hold it in.
Soldier on.
The kids and grandkids picked up that weight
and said,
“Actually, can we have something soft to hold
while we figure this out?”

We’re not a cure.
We’re not a solution.
We’re just a tool.

A reminder that for a few minutes,
you’re allowed to curl up
and not perform.

NARRATOR:
The Watchman, against his better judgment,
reaches out and pokes the Squishmallow’s side.

There’s a soft fwump as it sinks under his finger
and then rises back.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Okay…
that’s dangerously satisfying.

SQUISHMALLOW (smiling):
Right?

Texture matters.
We’re sized so you can hug us to your chest,
rest your head on us,
or just fiddle with us while you watch a show.
For some people,
that repetitive motion—
squeeze, release, squeeze, release—
is what keeps their thoughts from spinning out of control.
We’re like a stress ball
that decided to have a personality.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Teddy told me he’d been around
since the days of steam trains and bomb shelters.
He’s proud of being the original comfort toy.
Do you ever feel like you’re replacing him?

SQUISHMALLOW:
Oh, no.
We see ourselves more as…
the new kids on the same block.
Teddy is history and heritage.
He smells like grandparents and bedtime stories.
We smell like new polyester and the candle aisle at Target.

Some beds have both of us.
Teddy for the story,
us for the squish.
There’s room on the pillow
for more than one kind of soft.

NARRATOR:
The Watchman imagines a child’s bed:
a classic bear with stitched paws,
nestled up against a round, pastel blob
with a tiny contented smile.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
So if you had to sum up
what you’re here for—
in one sentence—
what would you say?

SQUISHMALLOW (thinking):
Hmm.
I’m here to be the shape
you don’t have to impress.
You don’t have to perform for us.
You don’t have to be smart
or brave
or cheerful.
You can flop down,
face-first,
and make that awful “I’m so tired” noise,
and we’ll still be here in the morning
with the same little smile.
We’re no-questions-asked softness.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
No-questions-asked softness.
That… sounds like something we could use
more of.

SQUISHMALLOW:
Exactly.
In a world that keeps asking,
“What did you do today?
What did you accomplish?
Did you win, did you post, did you earn?”—
we’re the one thing in the room saying,
“You’re allowed to just… be.”

NARRATOR:
On impulse,
the Night Watchman eases himself down to the floor
and leans back against the shelf,
letting the Squishmallow support his shoulders.
It yields under his weight,
then settles around him like a polite hug.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (voice softening):
Oh, that is…
dangerously comfortable.

SQUISHMALLOW (a little smug):
Careful.
We’ve taken down stronger people than you.

NARRATOR:
His eyelids feel heavier than they should.
Two in the morning will do that.
For a moment,
he understands
why kids and college students and office workers
pile these things in their corners like pastel sandbags
against the day.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (half-asleep):
If the director finds me
sleeping on duty,
I’m blaming you.

SQUISHMALLOW:
Tell them it was a medical necessity.
Prescribed comfort.

NARRATOR:
He pushes himself back up,
a little embarrassed,
a little grateful.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Teddy wanted to hold our fears.
Barbie wanted to hold our ambitions.
Ken told me he holds all the “sidekick feelings.”
What do you hold?

SQUISHMALLOW:
The moments in between.
The minutes after a bad test
and before you tell your parents.
The hour after a breakup
when you don’t want advice,
just something to hold on to.
The nights when the news is too loud,
and you mute it
and curl up with whatever softness is closest.
That’s us.
We’re the pause button
your arms can wrap around.

NARRATOR:
He looks down the shelf again:
cats, frogs, cows,
fantasy creatures and abstract patterns,
a whole pastel choir of uncomplaining listeners.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You know…
for a toy I’d never heard of ten minutes ago,
you make a pretty strong case.

SQUISHMALLOW (warmly):
That’s okay.
We’ll be here
when you’re ready for a nap.

NARRATOR:
The Night Watchman straightens his jacket,
gives the squishy shape one last pat,
and moves on—
back into the dim aisles,
past the shelves of toys waiting for their turn to talk.

Somewhere ahead
is a toy that doesn’t squish at all:
all speed and plastic tracks and roaring engines.

But tonight,
just for a moment,
the museum has reminded him
that even grownups
are allowed to lean on something soft.

[SFX: Footsteps fade. Gentle closing music into your outro.]

Some of the night watchman’s conversations were brainstormed with help from an AI collaborator, ChatGPT-4.

[Footsteps fade. Soft outro music.]

Join celebrate creativity for our next episode - an episode that I am really looking forward to - Conversations with a bobble head by the name of Edgar Allan Poe.


Thank you for listening to celebrate creativity.

Aquarium from Carnival of the Animals by composed by Camille Sans-Saen, Performed by the Seattle Youth Orchestra. Source: https://musopen.org/music/1454-the-carnival-of-the-animals/. License: Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording).