Losing Kathryn’s Blankie

When Kathryn, our first child, was born she was given a number of handmade baby blankets.  Some were quilted, others crocheted, knitted, or embroidered.  They were beautiful.  And right off the bat, the one she seemed to prefer was a thin, store-bought blanket.  It was white, with stripes of yellow, pink, and blue, and was bound with satin.  By the time Kathryn was a couple months old it had definitely become her blanket of choice.  

She slept with it every night.  She soon developed a conditioned response that, day or night, when she held her blanket her thumb automatically went to her mouth, and her eyes began to droop.  

The blanket went everywhere with us.  If we were going out for a drive, and wanted Kathryn to sit quietly in her car seat, we took the blanket.  Baby sitters were told about it as a surefire method for calming her.  It went on every vacation with us.

The blanket also went through the laundry pile every week.   And after a few years of daily snuggling, and weekly washing, it started wearing thin.  What began as a few loose strings quickly became gaping holes.  Kathryn never seemed to notice, however.  It was the satin binding that she loved.  As a toddler she would wait by the dryer for her clean “blankie” to come out.  Then she’d hold the blanket and begin rubbing her fingertips hypnotically on the satin as her other thumb would slip into her mouth.  

By the time she was five all that remained of the beloved blanket was the satin binding and long, tattered strings.  There were no more yellow, pink and blue stripes.  Just long, hanging strings held together by satin binding.  

One afternoon, as I was pulling stray strings from the lint basket of the dryer I finally broke down and cut away the remains of the blanket from the satin binding.  I tied the binding together in a big knot and gave it to Kathryn.  Braced for tears, I handed the knotted “blanket” to her, fresh from the dryer, explaining why I had cut it.  She was visibly surprised.  Without saying anything, she took the knotted mess from my hands, found the spot on the binding that she had rubbed the most over the years, and stuck her thumb in her mouth.  Then she thanked me for making it so nice for her without all the strings hanging down.

When Kathryn started school she still slept with the knotted satin binding of the blankie every night.  She still sucked her thumb, but we were beginning to work on that.  During the day the blankie was tucked carefully inside her pillowcase to prevent desperate bedtime searches for it.  And at night she would climb into bed, pull the blankie from the pillowcase, and go to sleep.  On the rare occasion that she spent the night with a friend, the blankie went along–inside her pillowcase.  She even took it with her to summer camp.  

At the age of nine, Kathryn lost her blankie.  She had taken it along on a family drive one afternoon.  Something which didn’t happen very often anymore. When it was bedtime she couldn’t find it anywhere.  We searched the house, and the car.  We looked under couch cushions, in the wastebaskets, in the toy box, closets, dresser drawers, coat pockets.  It was gone. 

She had a hard time getting to sleep that night.  I think she cried herself to sleep.  I had gone into the girls’ room to talk with her about it and explain that we had always known that someday the blankie would probably just disappear somewhere.  I told her that I knew she missed it, but that it might turn up.  And I encouraged her that she really didn’t need it anymore anyway.

She laid still, hands covering her face, quietly tearful.  When I finished talking, she rubbed the tears from her face and whispered.  “I know all that, Mom.  I just miss it.”

We hugged for a while that night.  Kathryn was grieving the loss of her blankie.  Her comforter.  This was a big change for her.   The blankie had become such a part of her childhood.  Clothes were outgrown, friends had changed, toys came and went, even favorite books changed.  But the blankie had been a daily part of her life for nine years.  

Pretty soon Kathryn was going to sleep just fine without it.  No more was said about its disappearance.  Until one night after I had kissed her good night and she’d crawled up into her bunk.  She whispered to me in the dark.  

“Hey, Mom?  Do you think my blankie will ever be found?”

I thought for a moment.  I said I really didn’t know.  That I’d been surprised we hadn’t found it yet.  

I waited for a response.  She was quiet for a second or two.  Then she whispered back, “I miss it.  I’m okay without it.  But I’d like to find it.  Just to have it put away in my box of all my special stuff you save.  I don’t need it anymore.  But I’d like to know that it’s safe in my box.”

“So would I,” I said.  And I went on to tell her how proud we were of how she had adjusted to its loss.

She didn’t answer me.  I knew she was crying hidden tears.  I kissed her good night, again.  She held onto me for just a moment.  I knew she no longer needed the comfort of having her blankie.  She just missed it, as a link to her childhood.  And I knew, standing there hugging her in the dark, that I missed it for that same reason.  It was a part of a childhood I have loved.  It was a tangible part.  And as that childhood was quickly slipping away from me, I too sometimes wished I just had something familiar to hold onto.

Post script:  Kathryn’s blankie did eventually turn up.  We celebrated its return, and put it away for safe keeping in her box of special childhood treasures.