Saturday, April 30, 2011

Blankie - a Soap Opera

Part I: In which a blankie is lost and a childhood is at stake

On Friday you left Blankie at school.

It was a perfect storm: Daddy usually picks you up and ensures Blankie's presence, but he is out of town, so a neighbor and babysitter stepped in. Your teacher usually puts Blankie in your backpack, but a new teacher was covering your class that afternoon. Blankie got left behind.

We didn't know until bedtime. I looked in your backpack and he wasn't there. I was stunned. In two years we have never lost Blankie. There is never a good time to lose Blankie, but a night when your father is out of town seemed especially bad.

I gave you a train to sleep with (Whiff) and told you that Blankie was in the washer getting all clean. Washing Blankie is traumatic, but it's familiar trauma, and he's come out alright in the past, so you eventually accepted this. I told you that when he was all clean I'd sneak into your room and put him on your chest. I lied to you. I needed to buy myself some time. I had broken out in a cold sweat and was operating in a state of mild panic. Once you fell asleep maybe I'd calm down and figure something out.

You did fall asleep. You are such a brave little boy. I called and e-mailed the school. I called my parents and friends for ideas on how to cope. I called Sarah, because I think it was her mom who gave you Blankie, and I was hoping that she remembered where she bought it or what it was called. I was hoping it wasn't hand made.

We never put a lot of thought into the blankie situation. When you were 5 months old we decided it would be good if you were attached to something that was not us, something we could put in your crib that would comfort you and help with the sleep training we had decided to try. We looked through our pile of blankets and settled on Blankie because he was the smallest, and had short satin pieces of ribbon sticking out around the edges that you liked to worry between your fingers, like an old woman with her rosary. We walked around with Blankie under our shirts, so it would smell like some awful combination of us. You were immediately hooked. You have not slept without it for over two years. Until last night.

Three hours after I put you to bed you woke up screaming. You were so upset you couldn't talk. Not that you needed to, I knew what you wanted. I tried giving you "Mommy's blanket," a satin night shirt similar in texture to the ribbons on Blankie. You were so upset to be offered a replacement that you cried harder, and in retrospect it's probably best you didn't take to that saucy little negligee, which would have been awkward to explain. I offered you a number of alternatives, and each seemed to distress you more than the last. Then I finally told you the truth: Blankie was safe at Chai Tots, and we couldn't get him until tomorrow. This news was met with violent racking sobs. At this point I was crying too, because I felt so terrible and helpless. And I had no idea what I'd do in the morning, when you'd demand to go to Chai Tots and retrieve Blankie. I couldn't bring myself to tell the full truth, that you wouldn't be reunited with Blankie until Monday, two long days and two sleepless nights away. An unfathomably long time. We would never make it.

After an hour of crying you settled down, and we lay in your bed together. You took to rubbing my fingers in the same way you rub Blankie's ribbons. In a way we had come full circle. Blankie had been meant to comfort you in my absence, and now it was I who comforted you in Blankie's absence. When you were finally asleep I slipped away to spend an hour researching how to pick locks. I told myself this was a reasonable thing to do, a skill I had always meant to acquire.

Other than lock picking, here is what I learned from the Internet: your Blankie is called a Taggie. Taggies are sold in half a dozen stores in Manhattan. So there was hope of a replacement, provided we survived the night. I couldn't find the specific pattern, but I hoped that the same shape and textures would be enough to get us through the weekend.

I went on Babycenter for advice on how to explain this all to you. The discussion boards were full of similar sob stories, which was initially comforting. But so many suggestions read along the lines of "talk to him about being a big boy and not needing a Blankie anymore." Which was heartbreaking advice. You don't need to be that big of a boy, not yet. Because of my carelessness, would you be forced to grow up and face the harsh realities of life this weekend? Even more terrifying was the story I imagined these parents weren't telling: "my son eventually recovered, but has not formed a strong bond with anything else ever since."

How could I stand by while you were cruelly pushed out of childhood? What if you would never be able to feel attached to anything or anyone else ever again? It's enough to make any parent consider breaking and entering.

On a side note, I would like to say, to all those parents who posted stories about how they bought or hand sewed ten identical baby blankies to guard against this kind of crisis, or cut an existing blankie in half or thirds so their children would never have to experience such heart wrenching loss, YOU PEOPLE ARE NOT HELPING. In fact, you are kicking us lesser parents while we are down. Yes, this is a great idea, but unless you have a time machine for rent just stop it with these here's-what-you-should-have-done posts. The rest of us are in a crisis here. We don't care about the past or the future. All our energy is focused on surviving right now.

Thus ends Part I. Will Roan be forced to become a man too soon? Will his mother be arrested for breaking into a nice Jewish preschool? How many stores in Manhattan really have Taggies in stock? Stay tuned for Part II.

1 comment:

  1. Argh! I am so sorry this happened. But you sure do tell a good story. Scout loves her Taggies blankie--it is the one we ended up giving her during sleep training, too. Tell that not-too-big boy that we love him.

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