My Blankie
When I was at my parents home last weekend I saw this framed blanket hanging over my parent’s bed. It was beautifully framed, museum quality, acid free paper as if it was a national treasure. It was my father’s baby blanket. How cute! How nice! How freaking weird! And one more thing, what a big fat giant hypocrite he is.
Sorry, I lost my head there for a minute. But here is the thing. When I was ten , yes ten, I had a special blankie all of my own. It was blue, and had satin trim. I loved my blanket and I loved to soft myself with the satin trim, which in all truth was a bit shabby and thread bare, but it was my special blanket. I didn’t carry it around with me or anything, I was ten after all. My father however, thought I was too old for it and so I kept it hidden most of the time inside my pillowcase. So, all is gong along just fine until the fateful day. It was fall, I was turning 11 and my Dad was burning leaves in a giant pile in the side field. He had all the kids doing the raking and he was in charge of watching the fire. So I guess he was just watching the blaze and thinking of things and one of the things he thought of was that I was too old to have my special blanket. All of a sudden he asked me how old I was going to be next week. “11″ I said proudly. ” 11, wow, you are almost a big girl, too big to have a blankie” he said. I agreed enthusiastically about the big girl part and gave a puzzled look about the blankie thing. I was big enough to know this could go nowhere good for me and my blankie. He said “big girls don’t need blankies, blankies are for babies, we should just get rid of it before you actually turn 11″. ” OK” I said half- heartily and I kept raking, a little faster than before, hoping to rake myself out of this line of questioning. Well, before I knew what happened I had gone up to my room, got my blankie, and in a moment that I have regretted for the past 42 years, I tossed my blankie into the fire. As soon as it left my hand I knew I had made a terrible mistake, but it was too late. The fire consumed my little blankie instantly. I was hysterical. My dad, who thought I had been on board with his chiding and not so subtle cajoling was shocked at my crying. My mom who heard all the commotion and was given a blow by blow by my sisters came out yelling at my Dad for being a bully. He was still puzzled, after all, it was just a ratty old blanket.
So now you can now understand my utter shock at the framed blanket. He is 79 years old for god sake. He framed his own baby blanket? It is not like it was the flag sewn by Betsy Ross for crying out loud. He has it hanging over his bed? Of all the gall! Now I am really mad about my little blankie. My poor burned up little blanket. Who’s the big baby now, daddy-o!
Faux Farm Girl