There's a Reason They Call it a COMFORT Blanket

Yesterday, 3 co-workers - Susan, Jennifer, and Heidi - and I snuck out of work into the rain to Zip's, a popular burger joint in town. As we left Zip's and climbed back into Susan's car, Susan and Jennifer both gasped in horror. Heidi and I leaned forward from the back seat to see what all the commotion was about.

Jennifer held up a soaked drawing drawn by Gracie, Susan's 7 year-old daughter. But Susan, noticeably more horrified, held up what looked like a 5x5 piece of soaked gauze. It was thin (you could clearly see each individual woven string), it was the color of dark mucus, and it was stitched together in the middle (clearly it had seen better days). Now, it was soaking wet. I've never seen anything more pathetic.

What is it? We all wanted to know.

"THAT," Susan pointed, "Is Gracie's blankie."

Ugh. We wrinkled our noses. That's her blankie?

"Well," she explained, "It used to be a huge towel. I used it to prop her head up when she was a baby. After that, she had to have it everywhere she went. I can't tell you how many times we've had a crisis because of this thing." And she proceeded to enlighten us with a story about the time when the Olive Garden threw away the blankie, denied everything, and Susan being the dogmatic tyrant she is, demanded they dump ALL their trash out onto the driveway where she spent an hour wading in trash in her new dress until she found the marinara, alfredo soaked blankie.

Jennifer shook her head. "You shouldn't have done it, Susan. You shouldn't have let her have the blankie. Now you've spoiled her." Now it was Jennifer's turn to regale us with a story about a previous roommate who, to Jennifer's horror, brought her blankie (really a pile of filthy rags) to school. It smelled so revolting that Jennifer would sneak the blankie out of the room and wash it when her roommate wasn't looking. "I just don't get it," she said. "It smelled so bad and she was in college! What was her mother thinking?" She shook her head disapprovingly. "When I'm a mom, I will NEVER let my children have blankies."

Heidi just shrugged her shoulders. "I never had one, so I don't understand it either." They nodded unanimously. Maybe it's just because we never had one. But still!

Meanwhile, I had been very quiet. Yes you would let your children have a blankie. You would if that was the only thing that comforted them. You would if that was the only thing that helped them sleep. You just don't understand. Don't knock what you don't understand. But I didn't say anything. I was afraid to let them know that I still sleep with my blankie - the one I've had since the day I was born.

My aunt, my dad's older sister, gave the blankies of her then 9 and 7-year-old boys to me. Pink and white baby blankets. I loved them. During the day, they were my capes as I flew into the next adventure. During the night, they were my ever-faithful companions, snug in my chubby little arms. I never questioned the wisdom of or the reason behind having blankies. Why should anyone question something they've lived with their entire life?

When I was 3, I accidentally left them in a hotel in the midst of a family vacation. I didn't know they were gone until after we arrived at our next destination, hours away. When I finally found out, I couldn't be consoled. Sympathetic, my aunt and uncle drove all the way back to retrieve my treasures. I still remember the euphoria I felt when they came back, blankies in tow.

When I turned 9, my mom would cluck disapprovingly every time she saw me with them. "You're too old for those!" she declared. "What will other people think of you when they see you with a blankie? Give them to me. If you don't, I'll throw them away when you're not looking." No! I snatched them back. I'm not too old. They're mine. You can't ever throw them away. I'm not even going to give them to my kids. I'll...I'll still have them when I get married!

A few years later, the white one disappeared. My mom had finally managed to throw one away. But I wasn't detered. The pink one was my favorite anyway, and I simply kept a keener eye on it.

Years passed. I took it to college. No one ever said anything. By then, I had stopped packing it with me on trips. My pension for practicality and light travel trumped even my need for the blankie. But it was still an unquestioned part of me. I never asked why.

I still remember the first time Jason slept in my room. I turned around and everything - my decorative pillows, my buddy pillow, and my blankie, had disappeared from my bed. The bed looked so...boring...with just the two regular sleeping pillows. Where did it all go? I peered over my bed. They were all lying scattered over my floor. I reached for them. Jason pulled me back into bed.

"You don't need them."
But I want them.
"Why?"
C'mon, just my blankie.
"Why?"
Because it helps me sleep.
"Why?"
Because I like to hold it when I sleep.
"That's what I'm here for. You get to hold me now."
But-
"No. Hold ME."

And he would wrestle me until we were snug in each other's arms and that was the end of that. We still have that conversation, except this time we do it for more for comical effect since I know I'm going to lose. Yet it was the first time I ever questioned my need for a blankie. Why did I need it? Why was it such an integral part of my daily rituals?

Sitting in Susan's car, I knew the answer. When I played, it was my turban in the Middle East, my cape as Super Girl, my toga as a Roman heiress. But when my parents fought...when they really screamed...when they turned on me and called me things...when they ignored my wounds...when I had no friends...when my first boyfriend cheated on me...when I loathed myself for 5 years and could not look myself in the mirror...I had one solace. My pink blankie.

To this day, one deep sniff of my blankie can make me smile, make me say Time to start the day or Now I can sleep. It carries a specific smell that only I recognize. In 22 years, it's been washed innumerable times. But the smell comes back. When something carries 22 years of tears, hugs, playtimes, and secret whispers, it's just not something you can wash out.

So am I saying that you better not traumatize your children or they'll end up with a blankie attached to their hip until the day they die? No. What I am saying is that some bonds just can't be broken, not even by disapproving parents, societal standards, or silly boyfriends. Everyone needs comfort. That's why they call it a comfort blanket.