Farewell, Pink Blankie

When my son Josh was born, we surrounded him with a bunch of the stuff you're supposed to use to surround babies ... spatially relative toys, soothing music, a small army of nannies who were under strict instructions to wake me up once the child reached college age.

And, of course, blankets. We purchased, or were given, enough blankets so he could sleep under a different one every night of the week, assuming the week had 18 days in it.

Blankets with Winnie-the-Pooh. Blankets with little ducks. Blankets that had different textures and sound-making apparatus woven into them. ("Feel this, Josh? That's the way an empty wallet feels. Hear this sound, Josh? That's the sound of a desperate man self-medicating with a pint of Jim Beam after one of your week-long bouts of waking up at midnight to play for four hours.")

But despite this plethora of choices, my youngest son decided that the one bestest, wonderfullest, absolutely cannot-live-without blankie he must have at all times ... was this ratty old pink blanket that had belonged to my wife when she was a baby.

My wife  was in equal parts touched and horrified. Touched, because this blanket had been a part of her babyhood. Horrified, because although my wife is not old by any stretch, the blanket had definitely not aged as well as she had. It was frayed at the edges, and had a couple of small holes in it where the cotton batting was coming out. I think we put it into Josh's crib as a joke one day, when he was a few weeks old, but he latched on to it.

From then on, whenever Josh was upset, a quick cuddle with Pink Blankie was usually enough to calm him down. Pink Blankie was a constant companion in the crib, or the car seat, or the playpen, or wherever Josh was.

We were not particularly thrilled when Josh began going to daycare. By then, Pink Blankie was firmly, irrevocably ensconced as the Blanket of Choice. And it was also the least appealing, from a looks-like-it's-been-chewed-by-wolves-and-used-as-bedding-for-their-den perspective. We worried briefly what the workers at daycare would think of us as parents. "Look at those people," they would whisper. "They seem nice, but they let their child play with a piece of cloth they picked up off the side of the road."

But they didn't understand the power of Pink Blankie. When Josh had trouble falling asleep, Pink Blankie could soothe him and let him relax. When he had tubes put in his ears, Pink Blankie comforted him through the pain. When he was scared (at the doctor's office, or during a storm, or when fireworks startled him), Pink Blankie was there for him. Always soft, always comforting, always willing to make things better.

And oh, the price Pink Blankie paid. It wasn't in great shape to start with, and the constant demands Josh placed on it literally began to wear it out. It was stitched up multiple times, until it became obvious that the stitches were just pulling the threadbare fabric apart even worse. Large chunks of cotton batting would fall out of the holes that continued to grow in its surface. Josh, who wasn't much for hygiene in his younger days, would sometimes cheerfully wiggle out of his diaper and tinkle on Pink Blankie in a fit of glee. It was dragged constantly ... through the house, through the yard, anywhere Josh could crawl, or toddle, or walk, or run. It was balled up, every night, and used as a chest/stomach pillow by Josh while he slept.

It must have been excruciating at times. Sheer torture. But Pink Blankie never complained, never shirked its duty, never refused to comfort and soothe and generally protect my son from the heartaches and problems of the young. It would bravely allow itself to be washed and dried, knowing that every time it did a few more seams would pop, a few more threads would unravel, a little bit more of itself would be gone. But it always bounced back, almost leaping into my son's outstretched arms the moment the dryer stopped, happy to be of service, happy to be back with its friend and constant companion. Always there. Always cheerfully accepting its role, regardless of the damage it would have to endure.

Until one fateful day.

When I picked up Josh from daycare that Friday, I forgot to get Pink Blankie. Sheer stupidity on my part ... I just didn't check his box when I got his other stuff.

He was going to my in-laws' house to spend the night. By the time I realized we didn't have Pink Blankie with us, it was too late ... the daycare center had closed. I told my in-laws what had happened, and my wife suggested Josh just stay with us. We didn't think he'd sleep a wink without Pink Blankie, and we didn't want her parents to have to deal with him. They insisted on keeping him, though, so we acquiesced.

And he did fine. Didn't ask about Pink Blankie once.

That Saturday night, we worried that once he was back in his own bed, the familiar surroundings would make him want Pink Blankie. So we braced ourselves for that.

But nothing happened.

That next Monday, when I picked Josh up from daycare, I got Pink Blankie. I was careful not to let him see it; I figured if he was ready to give it up, that was okay by me. Get rid of the ratty, bedraggled thing. Good riddance.

And it went fine. He asked about Pink Blankie once or twice, but we said "I'm not sure where it is right now" and he toddled along happily without it. To my knowledge, it didn't cross his mind again. So a couple of days later, while Josh was playing elsewhere, I put Pink Blankie high on a shelf in his closet, out of sight. I was a little taken aback at the pang I felt when I did that. Pink Blankie didn't whimper, or sulk, or even act surprised. After all, it was only a stupid pink blanket. With some of the cotton batting gone. And popped seams from where my son pulled it on all his baby and toddler adventures. And holes from where my son held it close, feeling its comfort, giving it love.

That was eight years ago now, and Josh is no longer my youngest son - Colin, who's four, has taken on that role. And Colin is in the process of getting a new bed, so last night he slept on a couch while I took apart his old bed so we could give it to some friends. While I was doing this, I happened to go into the closet, and saw Pink Blankie again for the first time in ... well, it seems like forever.

I walked downstairs to where Josh was sleeping, and just watched him for a bit. Eight years can make a lot of difference. He doesn't fall asleep in a ball any more, propped on his knees and his face like a chiropractor's favorite patient. He sleeps on his back, or sometimes his side. He doesn't feel the hole anymore that used to be filled by Pink Blankie while he slept. Or while he played. Or while he watched cartoons. Or while he rocked with his dad.

He doesn't feel the hole. But his dad sure does.

That's not my baby any more, or even my toddler, laying in that bed. That's my son. He's moving on, growing up, not needing comfort from some stupid pink blanket.

Farewell, Pink Blankie.

 

(c) 2013 John Puckett