Blankets and Other Valuables

 “We need to talk about your blanket, Josh.” I'm seated next to my toddler at the breakfast table. Matt is on his way to Montessori pre-school.  It's just one year old Ben, Josh and me having a quiet morning together, a perfect time for a serious conversation.

Three bowls of apple and spice instant oatmeal are scattered on the table between droplets of orange juice and milk. Ben’s high chair tray is splotched with shiny patches of varnish, dents and bits of dried cereal. His hair sticks out in spikes held firm by butter and toast tidbits that he has squished through doughy fingers. 

Josh wiggles in his booster chair, making room for his crib blanket next to him. The thermal weave, blue edged satin, thinned comfort cloth mats down easily. His round eyes open wide, head lifted towards me as half a spoonful of cereal goes in his mouth and the other half dribbles down the front of his teddy bear pajama tops. 

I take a deep breath and speak with a concerned and I hope compassionate tone. 

“Josh, you’re getting to be a big boy,” I smile, stretching the word big with a lilt in my voice. “You're going to go to pre-school soon and you still drag your blanket with you all over the apartment. Maybe you could try leaving it in your bed today. What do you think”? 

Josh looks at me quizzically, as if I am speaking an unfamiliar language. The phone rings pulling me away, towards the wall. As I greet my mother, I notice that Josh has purposefully gathered the shredded, discolored collection of threads into his lap. Josh takes another slurp of cereal, and in a breath, jumps off his chair and rushes past me into the back hall of our apartment building. 

I drop the phone and rush behind Josh through the back door, reaching him as the last bit of blue disappears beyond reach into the irretrievable opening of the incinerator. 

“I’m a big boy today,” he says with a smile, stretching the word big with a lilt in his voice. “I don’t need my blanket anymore.” 

Josh bounces back to his now lukewarm cereal. I pour my own breakfast down the drain, wishing I had kept my mouth shut. 

“Oh Josh.  It's gone and I can’t get it back for you. Ever.” 

I return my mother’s call, hoping for solace. She gets, but not quite, why I am nauseous. Ben’s heels and toes clatter against the legs of his chair, keeping time with his clucking tongue. Josh scurries off to the playroom. I feel my breath return. 

Two days later, Josh is lying in his bed, fresh from a bath, smelling powdery and sweet. The sheets are tucked in, up to his chest, Mickey Mouse ears peeking around his head. 

“Mom, I really need my blanket, bad.” I touch his cheek. A voice in my head begins the chatter, insulting my judgment as I say once again that his blanket is gone forever. The softness in his round brown eyes brushes over my head, smoothing my hair like a caress. I hold this sweet child in my lap and rock us both as Josh asks if I can buy him another blanket at Marshall Fields with the same smell. 

“I will do my very best, but the smell may be up to you.”