All of my children have done it. All three have become inexplicably attached to a piece of fabric. Blankies rule the roost in our home. When blankies are being washed, my children enter a mourning period. God forbid I dry the things too.
There are few things worse than a crying baby, especially one who will not settle into your arms until an inanimate object enters the equation. It makes me feel inadequate.
I get it. I had a blanky when I was little. The blanky brought comfort when I was scared, soothed unexplainable childhood anxiety, and felt like a piece of consistency in an unpredictable childhood. My yellow blankie stayed with me well into adolescence.
My personal experience and understanding do not dampen the unexplainable jealous tinge I feel for each of my children’s blankies. I want to be more important, more comforting than a rag. I want to be enough.
The jealous feeling is a combination of selfishness and the infamous “Mom guilt”. I want to be the main provider of comfort and know that my children feel fully content when I am around them.
I am sure that when blankies begin to fade from our daily requirements I will feel a whole range of emotions. For now I will live in this moment and do my best to share my children’s affection with a set of well loved blankies.
Tired Not Dead 