BB is on a quest to quantify my love for her. How much is it? And how does it compare to other people and things I love? The fine and not so fine print being: ‘please tell me you love me more than my sister.’
“How much do you love me?”
“Do you love Dad more than me?”
“Do you love me more than RB?”
“No. I love you both so much I could burst. I would die for you.”
“Would you die for Dad?”
I don’t want to say that there couldn’t be some situation that would make me reconsider. But in the depths of my soul I know I would do anything for BB and RB and as much as I love Captain, there appear to be some conditions.
“Do you love me the most?”
“I don’t love anyone more.”
“Do you love Blankety more?”
“I do not love Blankety more.” It gives me anxiety to think about sleeping without my 40-year-old blanket, but I can do hard things.
BB contemplates her security bunny. Bunzy is a bunny head with arms, and with what BB calls “blanket feet.”
These animal heads on small blankets have taken over the lovey market and they’re a little creepy if you give them too much thought. They’re a bunch of bodiless animal heads.
Thanks to having arms, Bunzy is able to wear an assortment of doll clothes, so sometimes it’s possible to forget she has no torso or whatever bunny bodies are called.
BB buries her face in Bunzy and tells me,
“No offense, but I love Bunzy more than I love you.”
“That’s ok.” I can only aspire to be 75% blanket and a dull, mottled gray color from never being washed.
Captain and I had an evening out, which never fails to remind me how we got ourselves into this mess in the first place.
I sported the faux, suede leggings I wore when I met him, which he loves and my new fuzzy coat which I love and he said looks like a sheep. Who doesn’t love sheep?
It was a dreamy moment without anyone bugging me for presents or more presents or when are there going to be presents. On our way out, I float into the restaurant bathroom. As I’m washing my hands, the woman next to me says something unintelligible followed by,
“…. very nice.”
In my contentedness, I made the assumption that she was saying something about me. Perhaps my sheep coat is very nice?
She stops washing her hands, turns to face me and enunciates loud and clear,
“THIS RESTAURANT is very nice.”
“Oh yes, it’s a LOVELY restaurant.”
There’s no way to recover from having assumed this was about me, but we spend a good five minutes singing the restaurant’s praises just in case.
For Hanukkah, my mom spent the week mending Blankety, my security blanket. I’ve mended her here and there over the 39 years of her existence, but it kinda breaks my heart.
No one wants to take a needle and thread to someone they love. Yes I understand she’s an inanimate object.
Blankety has never been one to wash frequently, especially as she’s gotten older and has really started to disintegrate. I washed her when I first met Captain. Her equivalent of a new pair of faux, suede leggings.
I washed her again right before BB was born. And I washed her two days ago.
Did you do the math on that? The blanket I smush against my face every night of my entire life, went 5.5 years without a wash.
A month ago as I did inventory on our winter gear, I said to Captain,
“I can’t believe the winter boots I was wearing when we met are 10 years old. They’re older than our relationship.”
Captain eyes Blankety in our bed and mutters,
“That’s the oldest thing in our relationship.”
I point at 47-year-old Captain,
“You are the oldest thing in our relationship.”
I may have won that one, but it made me take a hard look at poor Blankety.
She faded from bright pink to brown several years ago. Then her remaining innards started showing through and I couldn’t bear to put her in the wash.
Then I started to break out. Then Captain mentioned she doesn’t smell great and he steers clear of her in our bed. I think she smells fabulous and I’m not trying to share her with him, so good.
My mom promised to mend her and I promised to wash her.
I won’t say she looks like a whole new blanket, but she is a whole new color. Let’s do it again in 5 years.
I’ll be 40 this coming July. It’s got me contemplating mortality and Blankety’s life span. Will she live another 40 years? Will my faux, suede leggings still be around? I can only be so lucky to find out.