It used to be tightly crocheted with an open weave pattern on either end. It now has bigger holes and a stretched appearance.
It used to be an it. He slept with a blanket--with the devotion and constancy that some of us show our God--but still it was just his comforter, his transitional object.
Somehow over the last year, it has become she*. His blanket is now Blankie. Blankie gives and asks for hugs and kisses when I am giving them to Kyle at night. Blankie does things while Kyle is away from his room during the day: "Blankie is still sleeping." "Blankie's going to play with the dinosaur while I'm gone."
At first I just thought it was cute and imaginative. Recently I've only come to recognize it for what it really is. It's magic.
The magic of childhood affects everything that they touch, but especially that which they love. There are rules that we as adults are forced to accept: "Toys don't talk. That's just a blanket. Walk, don't run." If our children accepted these rules--adhered to these rules--there would be no magic, and I think that life around my house would be a lot shabbier.
He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real, shabbiness doesn't matter.
from The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams
*This first posted here on June 17, 2008. Things were different then. Kyle was four, perhaps a bit old for a blankie, but that's where the magic came in.
He's now almost eight. I don't even know where Blankie is. She's not a needed nighttime item. For a while, any time we traveled, we had to have her. I do know she made the move from Connecticut to Texas with us, and she hasn't been packed away. She might be under his pillow.
I doubt he even remembers the extent that Blankie was a part of those years. To be honest, until I stumbled upon this in my archives, I had forgotten too.