This essay was written for an assignment in a writing course, during my Freshman year at Grand Valley State University.
On a cold December day, 19 years ago, my infant body was wrapped in a soft blanket and placed into my Grandmother's arms. My Grandma had made me the small rectangular blanket with red, yellow, green and blue ducks on one side, and polka dots on the other. In between the fabrics was a layer of cotton, making the blanket thick and cushioned for my small figure. I do not remember being nestled deep in the blanket, but I know I was warm, content and comfortable.
As a two year old, I dragged the blanket behind my cautious steps. When I was four years old, my tiny fingers looped in and out of the small holes in each corner of the blanket. Growing older, the blanket kept me company while my brothers were at school; I held it extra tight when I watched Cruella de Vil chase the 101 Dalmatians in her red car. When I was upset, my blanket became damp; a substitute for tissue. Every night my father would tuck me into my bed with my blanket; I held it in one arm and gathered it up close to my neck.
The security I found in such a lifeless, tangible object is peculiar. How did a blanket that did not resemble any type of living creature (unlike stuffed animals and baby dolls), give me the same satisfaction as a playmate, guardian or caretaker? I believe it was the flexibility, familiarity and most importantly, comfort that my blanket could provide. At a young age I had already established the fundamental characteristics of a friend. What could be better than a cuddling playmate that could be packed up into a small bag, tied into knots and whipped around in circles while parading around in my pink night gown and toy high heals that made clicking noises when I walked? When I saw, smelled, and touched my blanket at any given time, I could become calm and assured; its presence was always associated with comfort. I could count on my reliable blanket staying with me at bed time and every day-- any time in which I wanted the perfect companion.
When I turned eight, slumber parties were popular and exciting events. I packed my toothbrush, my pajamas, a sleeping bag and my blanket. “Is that your baby blanket?” asked my friends. When I nodded, my friends looked embarrassed and concerned for me. For some reason, my blanket seemed so bizarre next to Lauren's stuffed lamb with a missing eye and Katie's blue beanie dog. What was wrong with a blanket? It was practical; it could be used to keep me warm and it looked normal (unlike the blue dog and one eyed lamb). I was not as crazy as my friends thought I was. Their attitudes toward my blanket did not stop me from bringing it to the future slumber parties; my comfort toy was much more unique than theirs.
My best friend, Emily once told me about how her blanket was “retired” when she was five years old. Her parents arranged a “retirement party,” complete with cake. At the retirement party, Emily's family wrote down their memories of the blanket then nicely placed the blanket into a cardboard box and stored it in their basement next to the other old baby toys. “You’re such a big girl now, Emily!” exclaimed Emily's parents. I watched Emily tell me her story, happily looking back on the funny memory. I was well over five years old, but could not image putting my blanket into a box, and storing it down in a basement forever.
Once I was in my Grandparent's basement, playing bouncy with my brother. There was nothing significant about the basement other than it was perfect for playing bouncy ball; the floor was hard cement there was nothing that my brothers and I could break. Sometime during the four hour car ride back home, I realized I had forgotten my blanket in the basement. I pictured my blanket, alone, on top of the dusty table, becoming as useless and neglected as everything else in the basement. I begged my father to turn the car around and go back to rescue my blanket. It was too late; I had to wait the long hours in the car before my mother could call Grandma and ask her to send it in the mail. The long days of worry, anxiety and impatience were worth the arrival of the box with my carefully folded blanket inside. Even though it smelled of moth balls and old furniture, I loved my blanket more than I had before.
My parents started to notice my dependency and infatuation that I had for the inanimate object. I was fonder of my juvenile blanket than I was of any individual. Were they to take it away from me and make me face life with out it? Well if they were supposed to, they did not have the nerve.
During fire safety week the fire fighters told us that if our house was on fire, we should never take the time to retrieve any of our toys or belongings. In my clever mind I knew that if I my house were on fire, I would find a way to slyly grab my blanket. I could picture the condemning looks the fire fighters would give me as I would come running out of the smoke and fire blazes holding a very flammable piece of cloth. I was the only person who fully understood the importance of my blanket. No societal taboo about baby blankets could stop me from possessing a baby blanket. I was an individual with my own personality, style, routine and sleeping paraphernalia.
One night, well into my Jr. High school years, my blanket was missing. After searching around the house, I found my blanket in the washing machine. Its light weight physique had been matted to the outer side of the washer, intertwined between other soggy and wrinkled rags and socks. It had been washed with the filthiest items of the laundry but that did not bother me. I carefully reached into the washer, snatched my blanket and went to bed with my cold, wet blanket against my neck; falling asleep peacefully, as always. I was getting older but my mind set had not changed; the importance of my personal well being defeated the expectations and norms of humanity.
My feet size grew to size nine, I got my drivers licenses, kissed a boy, went to prom, wrote a check to pay my college tuition. I was becoming a confident and independent woman despite the fact that I still fell asleep each night with a security blanket.
The four corners are now huge holes, the fabric around the edges have become long strips of fabric that I tie into knots. My mother sewed the separating pieces together but the colorful ducks and polka dots are no longer visible, and chunks of cotton fall out of the middle. “That’s disgusting” my friend Baylee tells me, as she avoids contact with my blanket. It looks to be battered and beaten pointlessly, but there are certain reasons why there is a hole in each corner and all the edges are frayed; my blanket displays the distinct love that only I have given. Now, as a woman, I ignore the harsh remarks and continue being proud of my vintage sidekick. I'm an individual who does what I want, I will not change who I am just to fit in with others.
“When you’re married will you go to bed each night next to your husband, holding that blanket?” my parents joke. I believe I will not need my blanket when I am married. Hopefully my husband will replace it with the same characteristics. I do not expect my future husband to let me hold him tightly to my neck when I sleep or allow me to whip him around. Whether it is a man or a blanket, I need a companion who provides familiarity, reliability, trust and comfort.
Even since I was born, my baby blanket has been shaping my personality. I am not ashamed of having something that brings me comfort. Call me a baby, call me weak or immature- I am still going to sleep with my blankey next to my neck tonight.
As a two year old, I dragged the blanket behind my cautious steps. When I was four years old, my tiny fingers looped in and out of the small holes in each corner of the blanket. Growing older, the blanket kept me company while my brothers were at school; I held it extra tight when I watched Cruella de Vil chase the 101 Dalmatians in her red car. When I was upset, my blanket became damp; a substitute for tissue. Every night my father would tuck me into my bed with my blanket; I held it in one arm and gathered it up close to my neck.
The security I found in such a lifeless, tangible object is peculiar. How did a blanket that did not resemble any type of living creature (unlike stuffed animals and baby dolls), give me the same satisfaction as a playmate, guardian or caretaker? I believe it was the flexibility, familiarity and most importantly, comfort that my blanket could provide. At a young age I had already established the fundamental characteristics of a friend. What could be better than a cuddling playmate that could be packed up into a small bag, tied into knots and whipped around in circles while parading around in my pink night gown and toy high heals that made clicking noises when I walked? When I saw, smelled, and touched my blanket at any given time, I could become calm and assured; its presence was always associated with comfort. I could count on my reliable blanket staying with me at bed time and every day-- any time in which I wanted the perfect companion.
When I turned eight, slumber parties were popular and exciting events. I packed my toothbrush, my pajamas, a sleeping bag and my blanket. “Is that your baby blanket?” asked my friends. When I nodded, my friends looked embarrassed and concerned for me. For some reason, my blanket seemed so bizarre next to Lauren's stuffed lamb with a missing eye and Katie's blue beanie dog. What was wrong with a blanket? It was practical; it could be used to keep me warm and it looked normal (unlike the blue dog and one eyed lamb). I was not as crazy as my friends thought I was. Their attitudes toward my blanket did not stop me from bringing it to the future slumber parties; my comfort toy was much more unique than theirs.
My best friend, Emily once told me about how her blanket was “retired” when she was five years old. Her parents arranged a “retirement party,” complete with cake. At the retirement party, Emily's family wrote down their memories of the blanket then nicely placed the blanket into a cardboard box and stored it in their basement next to the other old baby toys. “You’re such a big girl now, Emily!” exclaimed Emily's parents. I watched Emily tell me her story, happily looking back on the funny memory. I was well over five years old, but could not image putting my blanket into a box, and storing it down in a basement forever.
Once I was in my Grandparent's basement, playing bouncy with my brother. There was nothing significant about the basement other than it was perfect for playing bouncy ball; the floor was hard cement there was nothing that my brothers and I could break. Sometime during the four hour car ride back home, I realized I had forgotten my blanket in the basement. I pictured my blanket, alone, on top of the dusty table, becoming as useless and neglected as everything else in the basement. I begged my father to turn the car around and go back to rescue my blanket. It was too late; I had to wait the long hours in the car before my mother could call Grandma and ask her to send it in the mail. The long days of worry, anxiety and impatience were worth the arrival of the box with my carefully folded blanket inside. Even though it smelled of moth balls and old furniture, I loved my blanket more than I had before.
My parents started to notice my dependency and infatuation that I had for the inanimate object. I was fonder of my juvenile blanket than I was of any individual. Were they to take it away from me and make me face life with out it? Well if they were supposed to, they did not have the nerve.
During fire safety week the fire fighters told us that if our house was on fire, we should never take the time to retrieve any of our toys or belongings. In my clever mind I knew that if I my house were on fire, I would find a way to slyly grab my blanket. I could picture the condemning looks the fire fighters would give me as I would come running out of the smoke and fire blazes holding a very flammable piece of cloth. I was the only person who fully understood the importance of my blanket. No societal taboo about baby blankets could stop me from possessing a baby blanket. I was an individual with my own personality, style, routine and sleeping paraphernalia.
One night, well into my Jr. High school years, my blanket was missing. After searching around the house, I found my blanket in the washing machine. Its light weight physique had been matted to the outer side of the washer, intertwined between other soggy and wrinkled rags and socks. It had been washed with the filthiest items of the laundry but that did not bother me. I carefully reached into the washer, snatched my blanket and went to bed with my cold, wet blanket against my neck; falling asleep peacefully, as always. I was getting older but my mind set had not changed; the importance of my personal well being defeated the expectations and norms of humanity.
My feet size grew to size nine, I got my drivers licenses, kissed a boy, went to prom, wrote a check to pay my college tuition. I was becoming a confident and independent woman despite the fact that I still fell asleep each night with a security blanket.
The four corners are now huge holes, the fabric around the edges have become long strips of fabric that I tie into knots. My mother sewed the separating pieces together but the colorful ducks and polka dots are no longer visible, and chunks of cotton fall out of the middle. “That’s disgusting” my friend Baylee tells me, as she avoids contact with my blanket. It looks to be battered and beaten pointlessly, but there are certain reasons why there is a hole in each corner and all the edges are frayed; my blanket displays the distinct love that only I have given. Now, as a woman, I ignore the harsh remarks and continue being proud of my vintage sidekick. I'm an individual who does what I want, I will not change who I am just to fit in with others.
“When you’re married will you go to bed each night next to your husband, holding that blanket?” my parents joke. I believe I will not need my blanket when I am married. Hopefully my husband will replace it with the same characteristics. I do not expect my future husband to let me hold him tightly to my neck when I sleep or allow me to whip him around. Whether it is a man or a blanket, I need a companion who provides familiarity, reliability, trust and comfort.
Even since I was born, my baby blanket has been shaping my personality. I am not ashamed of having something that brings me comfort. Call me a baby, call me weak or immature- I am still going to sleep with my blankey next to my neck tonight.