I am jealous of a blanky.

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.   

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