A Love Affair With Blankies

They go by lots of names: snuggie, blankie, lovey, or willy, as mine is called.  Whatever their name, they all have one thing in common--they bring immense comfort to their owner.  My brother, Justin, saw my blanket this weekend and through his bellowing laughter he said, "oh, you gotta blog about this thing!" Willy (because he's weally, weally woveable, of course) isn't the one from my childhood.  That blanket was stolen by my parents in an attempt to stop my thumb-sucking habit.  Willy came into my life my Freshman year in high school.  Willy is atrociously tattered and torn,  every time I wash it I say a little prayer that it'll come out of the dryer alive.  Willy is a D.N.R. (do not resuscitate) as there aren't even enough pieces to sew together. 

↑ This is my childhood blanket. A little tattered, but with a little love

can probably be restored for my next baby.

↓This is Willy.  Not sure how many years he has left,

but I will enjoy the time was have together. 

Harrison and Gavin have their own blankies lovingly made by my friend and coworker, Diane.  Harrison threads his chubby fingers through the crochet holes and sucks his thumb while Gavin rolls the blanket between his fingers.  Their blankies almost instantly stop tears when they're hurt and sleep will not be found without their blankies by their side.  Some people (my dad) would call this an absurd dependency that needs to be stopped, hence the story stated above about my childhood blanket.  I disagree!  I love seeing my boys snuggle with what I know brings them such comfort.  A comfort I know all too well.

**As I am writing this post Gavin crawled into my lap with his blanket in-tow for some one-on-one snuggling**