Partway through the summer I discovered something was missing. I usually have a general awareness of important items; it’s a newer skill, honed by keeping track of everyone else’s stuff. I’ve always had good luck knowing where I’ve put MY stuff, generally in the same spot to be located quickly and reliably. Then came children and suddenly, my shoes were NOT where I left them. This was a big issue for me, totally throwing me off my game when I was all set to charge out the door, perpetually late for something and find my shoes had evaporated into thin air. So it was a shock, really, to comprehend that I had lost track of a very important item and I could not recall where I last saw it or even when I last saw it.
My baby, my sweet little boy, on the cusp of turning four, and a dedicated blanket baby, my Linus, was dragging around only one of his two blankets. Blankets I had received as baby shower gifts, both downy soft at first, both baby blue, one with little puppy paw prints all over, the other with an embroidered train on one end, were chosen by said baby boy, as the only ones he cuddled with and sucked his fingers as he drifted off to sleep. It’s wonderful to have two, one in the wash and one dragging on the floor behind him. Both have seen many, many washes, their downy softness loved away, now somewhat rough and pilly, yet absolutely treasured. He calls them his “Peen-Cot”, which is baby for “blanket”.
I was totally puzzled, perplexed at where his “Peen-Cot” (the one with the embroidered train) could have been left. Fortunately, since he still had the other, he was not bothered by having misplaced one of his blankets. After all, he still had one. But I was concerned so I checked our church, making special trips to peer in every corner, retracing possible steps. At home I scoured the laundry room, ransacked my daughters’ room, rummaged through the piles in my room, emptied the car, looked high and low, below and behind, all to no avail. When you generally have an idea of where everybody in your house’s stuff is, to lose such an important item, that really if anyone is responsible for it’s me, is unsettling, upsetting!
Perhaps it was time to wean my now four year old from his nightly habit of cuddling with his blanket and sucking his two middle fingers. Friends have cautioned me against allowing it to continue. I’ve heard the admonitions of tooth and jaw deformity, (knowing our own dental histories, we’re already planning that each of our children will have to have braces, so that’s not a significant concern), and I knew someone who had awful metal implants in the roof of her mouth to stop her thumb-sucking, yet she bent the sharp prongs back with her thumb and continued the habit. Of adult children who still thumb-suck… ok? I’ve heard it, I’m not worried. He’s my baby. And still, he doesn’t seem to miss his blanket, but I do.
I wondered, in fact, why I was so concerned about the missing blanket. Who was more attached here? And the answer came, that I am just not ready for my baby to really and truly be a big boy. This blanket, this worn, nubby cloth, was a source of comfort for him. He loved it, needed it, flung it over his shoulder like a cape or piled on top of his head like some goofy blanket-hat. When engaged in a TV show, he’d run and get it, cuddling with it and sucking his fingers, engrossed in the program. Always Peen-Cot. I wasn’t ready to lose this symbol of his babyhood.
Last week. Summer is over and my son and I are back at the church run weekday early education program that he attends and where I teach. I cut through the large multi-purpose sanctuary on my way… somewhere. The cavernous room was empty, but right in my path, slung over the back of a chair – is Peen-Cot. I snatch it up and clutch it to my chest. The relief and joy at finding this missing blanket is so… odd. And unexpected. I don’t want to let it go.
At home I present the missing Peen-Cot to its rightful owner. My son’s eyes light up with recognition, he is delighted. The other peen-cot gets tossed unceremoniously onto the waiting pile of dirty laundry, but I tell him that I must wash this one before he can have it, and he allows it.
Not much longer, I sit down with needle and thread and in choppy stitches I apply his name to the hem. I think about the little girl in Don Freeman’s book, sewing the button on Corduroy’s overalls, bringing him home, permanently claiming him. All is right, Peen-Cot is home, my baby boy is snuggled in his bed, cuddling his blanket, and sucking his fingers, at least for a little while longer.
