Yesterday my blankie was in the wash when it was time to tuck into bed. I always sleep with it tucked into my neck, I’m not sure how long I’ve slept like that or what but I don’t sleep well without something tucked into my neck. It’s just a nightmare, and I’ll toss and turn. If for whatever reason my blankie is in the wash, I can use another blanket or something but I do need something if I want to sleep.
As Master Pravus was tucking me into bed he realized that my blankie was in the dryer, because it was one of the few times we were washing it. (We wash the bedding pretty frequently, but not my actual blankie.) He said not to worry, because he had a plan for tonight. I actually wasn’t worried because usually he does have a plan, and as I mentioned before usually anything will work- I just need something to cram under my neck. He ran out of the room and when he came back he had my actual baby blankie.
I wasn’t actually sure how to respond at first and I felt really fragile. I started to tear up.
“That’s my baby blanket,” I said softly.
“Yeah,” Master Pravus replied really sweetly to me. He folded it up to put it behind my head.
“I. But. I’ve never slept with it before,” I managed to squeak out as I laid my head on it for what was the first time that I ever remembered.
“You did when you were little,” he reminded me gently.
I began to softly cry.
“Are you okay? You don’t have to sleep with it if you don’t want to, we can find something else..”
“I’m okay. It’s just that. Nobody’s ever said that to me before. And I forgot.”
He let me cry a little bit, and then I tucked in with my baby blanket and slept with it for the first time that I can remember.
When I was a baby, I was adopted. The way it was explained to me, the only thing my birth mother gave to me was this baby blanket. It was kept safe until I was fourteen, and then was given back to me. Unfortunately at that point it had gotten some holes in it, because it wasn’t kept safe enough. I don’t know how to knit I and I had no clue how to fix it. At the time, I still treasured it even with the holes in it, because it was the only thing that my birth mother had given me, and I had nothing else from her.
Years later, when I met Master Pravus’ mother and we eventually got along I learned she knew how to knit and Master Pravus let slip that my baby blanket had three holes in it from being improperly stored.. Well. She immediately offered to fix it for me. It was so stressful to me to consider leaving my baby blanket somewhere else for even a single day, but I did. I left it at her house for a week and she returned it to me completely brand new! I don’t know how or what she did but you can’t tell it ever had a single hole in it at all. Master Pravus said it’s because she’s a Mom, and all Moms just have a magic inside them to do certain things. I’ll never be a mother, and I never really had one of my own, so I don’t really know what or how that works but I didn’t know how to thank her.
We have gotten along ever since that day.
Before that day, things were definitely not sunshine and peaches, but you also have to remember that Master Pravus is her first born child. Honestly, I knew why she was so protective of him then and I still do now. But that’s not what this post is about. This post is about my baby blanket.
The next morning, with my blankie out of the dryer, Master Pravus could see that I was clearly stressing out constantly over the state of my baby blanket. I couldn’t handle seeing it set down on this surface or that. I just kept tearing up and panicking over every little thing (what if Dongalor gets his claws stuck in it? What if a drink spills on it? etc.) so he put it back on the shelf for me. The thing is that while he loves to snuggle with his own baby blanket from his childhood, I just like knowing mine is there but actually using it really does make me scared.
I don’t spend any amount of time worrying about who my birth family is or were or was, but for some reason, this little relic has always been important for as long as I have known about it. I like knowing that it exists. For me, I need to know it’s there. It’s a tiny window into my past. The thought of the pattern chosen. The colors that were picked. The fact she hand knitted this for me herself. I know that for most people, they just won’t understand why I like having my blanket nearby, but I can’t bear to actually use it. I know for lots of people their baby blanket feels so comforting and warm. But for me, I feel more protective of it, than in need of its fluffy threads of protection and warmth.
All of it could be lies, I know. All of it could be just a story made up and told to me in my youth as they gave me the blanket, but I don’t see what the point of lying about a tiny baby blanket would be. Why lie and hide a baby blanket in the basement all those years? Besides. In my adopted family, on my adopted mother’s side and my adopted father’s side, there wasn’t anyone who knitted. There were only people who crocheted. I have clung to this tiny afghan my entire life. This small fragment of shattered hope. The thought of my Mother knitting each stitch one at a time and them sending it with my baby carrier.
I could always picture the scene as a child:
“Wait. At least, before you take her. She should have her blanket. I made her this.” That’s all I had. A blanket. A carrier, and hope.
It’s all I have left. I don’t know where she is but I always thought that wherever that was, I’d want her to know that no matter what I still do have it. And I fixed it. And it’s with me always.
Thank you Momma.