Build a Furry Friend With Build-a-Bear

As you may be able to surmise from my profile picture, I have been a teddy bear enthusiast for as long as I can remember. At one point in my toddlerhood, Teddy Bear Picnic was my favorite song, and I often invited my bears and a handful of other plush pals to join me for cheese puffs and Kool-Aid, artfully presented with the help of my Strawberry Shortcake tea set. In later years, I drooled over Teddy Ruxpin and started what has swelled into an impressive Winnie-the-Pooh collection. So when Build-a-Bear Workshop opened up at my mall last week, I was excited.

I'd first heard of the store several years ago when one friend described a bear he'd received as a gift and another showed off the one she and her boyfriend had made. Two years ago, I went to the Boyds Bear store, located in a massive barn outside Gettysburg, PA, and on one of the floors I caught my first glimpse of the fabled Build-a-Bear. I got my second in Buffalo last year, but on neither occasion was I inclined to open my wallet on such an extravagance. But I went for the grand opening here in Erie, waiting with my two friends, one of whom had already built a dog at another location and hoped to dress him up in nerdy duds this time around. We watched a group of first- and second-graders stuff bears for charity and assist with the ribbon-cutting, and then we went into the store, clutching the free gift books we received as some of Build-a-Bear's first patrons.

The store was smaller than I expected and a bit hard to navigate on such a busy day, though generally I don't imagine it will be quite so congested. Half a dozen incredibly perky employees greeted us and tried to convince us that we needed this, that or the other thing. When my friend tried a Superman suit on his dog, an employee tried to convince him to buy the matching pajamas, while two employees attempted to convince me that my creation's outfit would not be complete without underwear; that's getting just a little bit too detailed, if you ask me, especially for an extra $3.50. However, for an extra $5, I did consent to them putting in a plastic heart that simulates a heartbeat, and I had to go through a small ceremony as the heart was placed inside, the last step in the stuffing process.

Although the shop is called Build-a-Bear, there are all sorts of different animals to choose from, sad, floppy forms just itching to be stuffed with fluff and taken home. In honor of my obsession with the song I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas, and because I don't have a stuffed hippo although I've always loved the animals, I selected a fuzzy, pale purple hippopotamus with light blue spots. I took my hippo to the stuffing station, where I stood on a pedal while a woman sitting by a contraption reminding me of a cotton candy machine pumped fluff into her. Then it was off to the primping station, which seemed rather pointless but allowed me to put my hippo under a hair dryer, evidently to make sure she left at her floofiest.

Next, I had to select an outfit. Well, no one was forcing me, but I thought I might as well complete the process, even though it did set me back another $12. I purchased an elegant, deep purple witch's outfit that complemented my hippo's fur perfectly and sat down at the custom computers for the last step, which was to create a birth certificate. I named my hippo Minerva in honor of Professor McGonagall of Harry Potter fame; though she favors green, I think the purple dress robes would look smashing on her. Then it was time for check-out, and they boxed Minerva up in a handy crate. I also signed up for their club, which awards points for every purchase and sends out ten-dollar gift certificates for every hundred dollars spent. Add the fifty bonus points I received for signing up, and I'm nearly eligible already, though I still have to go online and apply the points since the computer was down at the time.

I was right to feel some trepidation along with my excitement when I heard Build-a-Bear was coming. The store is a money trap, with limitless opportunities to shell out hard-earned cash and overenthusiastic employees all too eager to help you do that. My hippo cost $18, which is about the middle of the range; my friend's dog cost $12, and I noticed a leopard that cost $25. Among the outfits, my witch ensemble was fairly average; though most individual articles were more in the $6-8 range, complete outfits were generally at least $12. Along with the underwear, I could have chosen to purchase shoes and any number of accessories, including a voice chip that would allow my hippo to make a sound when hugged. There were a couple dozen different stuffed animals to choose from and dozens of different outfits and various add-ons. It all adds up pretty quickly, so exercise self-control. We talked to a woman who has purchased 120 Build-a-Bear creations, both in person an online; the available animals change periodically, so the avid collector can be easily tempted. I don't intend to start an extensive collection. But I'm happy with my hippo, and I know there are an awful lot of kids in Erie who are going to get a big kick out of building stuffed pals of their own.