Sorry, folks, this isn't an article on the heavier attachment issues. It's about a Cabbage Patch kid, a hideous plastic monkey, a shred of sheepskin, and a blue teddy bear. And of course, a special blankee.
I remember being a kid, and seeing other children getting attached to 'things'. My sister Angela became 'attached' to her Cabbage Patch Kid Brigitta. She was convinced not only that Brigitta was alive, but also capable of flight. Sadly, these two facts were simultaneously and traumatically disproved during a holiday dinner. Without warning, Brigitta the Cabbage Patch Kid was hurled skyward across the dining room table before landing squarely in our grandmother's Yorkshire pudding.
Sorry, Angela. Brigitta was NOT a flying doll. And if she WAS alive at one point, she wouldn't have survived the scrubbing our grandma gave her to remove the gravy from her navel.
But attached they remained. Angela brought Brigitta EVERYWHERE. She threatened death if I touched her yarn-hair, or tried to change her clothes. "I am her mommy. YOU are a pest. Hands OFF my Brigitta! I NEED her, and she NEEDS me!"
When I met my husband Kevin, his mother recounted the story of the tragic loss of Kevin's favourite Blue Teddy. During a routine tantrum, Kevin dropped this special bear. The story goes that it was flung out the car window, but one can never be sure when legends are involved. All that mattered was that Blue Teddy was gone. And Kevin NEEDED it.
Even when we met as teenagers, Kevin wasn't the crying type. He's a manly man's man. But I thought I caught a hint of a tear in his eye when the story of Blue Teddy brought up old memories. "You let him lie there on the road!" Kevin protested. Fifteen years later, the wound was still raw. But he won't talk about Blue Teddy today. Even when I gave our ring-bearer a blue teddy bear instead of a pillow to carry up the aisle, Kevin wouldn't tell me why that particular teddy was so special.
I asked my mom why Angela was soooooo attached to her Brigitta. "Well, Sarah," Mom said simply, "Angie brought Brigitta to the hospital with her when she was diagnosed with diabetes. It's her comfort thing."
When my twin brothers came home at age two, they didn't bring much with them. But they, too, had their "things". One had a monkey. A HIDEOUS, gnarled plastic monkey with matted fur, and a withered banana in its claw-like hand. It was repulsive. The other had a little square of sheepskin that he rubbed constantly across his cheek. Mom washed the sheepskin and my first brother cried until she gave it back. She tried to bleach the monkey but its hair turned orange. My second brother cried.
Mom quickly learned not to interfere anymore with their special "things". She washed them while they were off at pre-school and let the boys keep their special things for as long as they needed to. "Why on earth does he love that ugly monkey, mommy?" I was pretty horrified at his chosen toy. "Well, Sarah, the boys have just joined our family. They need these special things to feel comfortable and attached. And your brother loves his monkey. That's his special thing."
But I was not attached to any 'thing'. Never, ever.
I had a doll named Sally. She got carried around enough by one arm to render her shoulder malformed and completely void of stuffing. But I didn't NEED Sally. I could let her fall under the bed for weeks at the time, give her a big hug when I found her, and carry on with my life. I had a baby blanket that I kept for years, but usually it remained folded at the end of my bed. I didn't NEED it. I had stuffed animals and toys and I think I even had a washcloth at one point.... but I didn't NEED any of those things.
I wondered, since everyone else was, why didn't I feel attachment to "things"? Maybe because I was blessed with an unusually blissful childhood. Maybe because I was breastfed til I was three. (Don't be so horrified, boob-o-phobes, I had severe allergies and breast milk was one of the few things I could digest!) Maybe I just never connected to 'things'. I was the odd duck out.
Fast forward twenty years. Our son is home, he's attached. Connected. No hospital visits, no toddler transitions. He's still in contact with his foster family, he knows who his mother and father are. I wondered if he'd need to attach to a "thing" like his father, aunt, and uncles did.
I didn't mind the idea. His foster mother (now his grandmother, lucky boy!) sent over a few teddy bears that had been in his crib so that his sleeping quarters would look identical to his foster crib. I thought maybe he'd take a liking to one of those.
Nope. Okay, then where's that hideous monkey my sister bought as a gag gift? Thank God, he did not fall in love with that either. He briefly showed some interest in a plastic two foot tall tyrannosaurus, but, wouldn't you know it, that toy just *disappeared* without warning as soon as it became apparent that infatuation was sinking in.
So he settled on his blankee. No, not a ten dollar Walmart special. Not a mass-produced example I could pick up at the Bay or Babies R US. Oh, no. Not my son. He fell in love with the one blanket I can't afford to keep replacing.
It's a pretty thing. Soft and plush and fluffy on one side, smooth and colourfully patterned on the other. The brand name is something ridiculously cutesy about monkeys and moos. (See? I just can't avoid the monkey!)
It was a gift from my husband's mother for his baby shower. He slept with it most nights, until he learned to talk and quickly learned to beg for it every night. We indulged him, and it became a daytime friend, too. Linus became one of our son's many nicknames.
When he's sick, he whines for "Blankee". When he falls out of bed he can climb back in, but needs mom or dad to get his "BLANKEE". During car rides, no matter how hot it might be in our vehicle, he needs to snuggle up with Blankee.
He plays with other toys, he'll watch snippets of movies or TV shows. But if Blankee is near, every once in a while, he'll run over to it, scoop it up in both hands, and bury his face into the soft side of it. He'll rub his chubby cheeks back and forth for a few seconds, bite the cloth with toddler-sized determination (that's big, in case you were wondering) before casting Blankee to the floor and carrying on with his day.
Then mommy got a new job. And our toddler went to daycare.
We're lucky enough that Kevin's mom was able to watch our son while we both worked. She got him into a routine for nap time but quickly realized that he would NOT sleep without his special blankee.
But some mornings it was dirty, so we'd have to send him off without..... not a good idea. "He NEEDS his blankee," Grandma implored. "Please send it, it's just as important as packing his diapers and lunch." (Please note, the same woman who gave the child this blanket is now requesting it to be available at all times. Thanks, Grandma!!.... and yes, we still love you.)
Since when is a blanket as important as feeding and clothing a child? Well, when you're attached to some "thing", I guess it's pretty important.
Which leads me back to my complaint.... why God. WHY? Why did our son fall in love with this particular blanket?? It took me two hours on the Internet and phone to locate a store that had it in stock. I was horrified by the listed prices from websites in the US (none of which, of course, shipped to Canada).
I drove over an hour from my home to pick up a duplicate of this blankee, so he'd have one at home and one at daycare. I was absolutely horrified at the price..... sit down for this please. Including tax, it came to $69 and change.
Gah!! Why couldn't you love a two dollar washcloth instead?? My boy's got expensive taste!
I remember being a kid, and seeing other children getting attached to 'things'. My sister Angela became 'attached' to her Cabbage Patch Kid Brigitta. She was convinced not only that Brigitta was alive, but also capable of flight. Sadly, these two facts were simultaneously and traumatically disproved during a holiday dinner. Without warning, Brigitta the Cabbage Patch Kid was hurled skyward across the dining room table before landing squarely in our grandmother's Yorkshire pudding.
Sorry, Angela. Brigitta was NOT a flying doll. And if she WAS alive at one point, she wouldn't have survived the scrubbing our grandma gave her to remove the gravy from her navel.
But attached they remained. Angela brought Brigitta EVERYWHERE. She threatened death if I touched her yarn-hair, or tried to change her clothes. "I am her mommy. YOU are a pest. Hands OFF my Brigitta! I NEED her, and she NEEDS me!"
When I met my husband Kevin, his mother recounted the story of the tragic loss of Kevin's favourite Blue Teddy. During a routine tantrum, Kevin dropped this special bear. The story goes that it was flung out the car window, but one can never be sure when legends are involved. All that mattered was that Blue Teddy was gone. And Kevin NEEDED it.
Even when we met as teenagers, Kevin wasn't the crying type. He's a manly man's man. But I thought I caught a hint of a tear in his eye when the story of Blue Teddy brought up old memories. "You let him lie there on the road!" Kevin protested. Fifteen years later, the wound was still raw. But he won't talk about Blue Teddy today. Even when I gave our ring-bearer a blue teddy bear instead of a pillow to carry up the aisle, Kevin wouldn't tell me why that particular teddy was so special.
I asked my mom why Angela was soooooo attached to her Brigitta. "Well, Sarah," Mom said simply, "Angie brought Brigitta to the hospital with her when she was diagnosed with diabetes. It's her comfort thing."
When my twin brothers came home at age two, they didn't bring much with them. But they, too, had their "things". One had a monkey. A HIDEOUS, gnarled plastic monkey with matted fur, and a withered banana in its claw-like hand. It was repulsive. The other had a little square of sheepskin that he rubbed constantly across his cheek. Mom washed the sheepskin and my first brother cried until she gave it back. She tried to bleach the monkey but its hair turned orange. My second brother cried.
Mom quickly learned not to interfere anymore with their special "things". She washed them while they were off at pre-school and let the boys keep their special things for as long as they needed to. "Why on earth does he love that ugly monkey, mommy?" I was pretty horrified at his chosen toy. "Well, Sarah, the boys have just joined our family. They need these special things to feel comfortable and attached. And your brother loves his monkey. That's his special thing."
But I was not attached to any 'thing'. Never, ever.
I had a doll named Sally. She got carried around enough by one arm to render her shoulder malformed and completely void of stuffing. But I didn't NEED Sally. I could let her fall under the bed for weeks at the time, give her a big hug when I found her, and carry on with my life. I had a baby blanket that I kept for years, but usually it remained folded at the end of my bed. I didn't NEED it. I had stuffed animals and toys and I think I even had a washcloth at one point.... but I didn't NEED any of those things.
I wondered, since everyone else was, why didn't I feel attachment to "things"? Maybe because I was blessed with an unusually blissful childhood. Maybe because I was breastfed til I was three. (Don't be so horrified, boob-o-phobes, I had severe allergies and breast milk was one of the few things I could digest!) Maybe I just never connected to 'things'. I was the odd duck out.
Fast forward twenty years. Our son is home, he's attached. Connected. No hospital visits, no toddler transitions. He's still in contact with his foster family, he knows who his mother and father are. I wondered if he'd need to attach to a "thing" like his father, aunt, and uncles did.
I didn't mind the idea. His foster mother (now his grandmother, lucky boy!) sent over a few teddy bears that had been in his crib so that his sleeping quarters would look identical to his foster crib. I thought maybe he'd take a liking to one of those.
Nope. Okay, then where's that hideous monkey my sister bought as a gag gift? Thank God, he did not fall in love with that either. He briefly showed some interest in a plastic two foot tall tyrannosaurus, but, wouldn't you know it, that toy just *disappeared* without warning as soon as it became apparent that infatuation was sinking in.
So he settled on his blankee. No, not a ten dollar Walmart special. Not a mass-produced example I could pick up at the Bay or Babies R US. Oh, no. Not my son. He fell in love with the one blanket I can't afford to keep replacing.
It's a pretty thing. Soft and plush and fluffy on one side, smooth and colourfully patterned on the other. The brand name is something ridiculously cutesy about monkeys and moos. (See? I just can't avoid the monkey!)
It was a gift from my husband's mother for his baby shower. He slept with it most nights, until he learned to talk and quickly learned to beg for it every night. We indulged him, and it became a daytime friend, too. Linus became one of our son's many nicknames.
When he's sick, he whines for "Blankee". When he falls out of bed he can climb back in, but needs mom or dad to get his "BLANKEE". During car rides, no matter how hot it might be in our vehicle, he needs to snuggle up with Blankee.
He plays with other toys, he'll watch snippets of movies or TV shows. But if Blankee is near, every once in a while, he'll run over to it, scoop it up in both hands, and bury his face into the soft side of it. He'll rub his chubby cheeks back and forth for a few seconds, bite the cloth with toddler-sized determination (that's big, in case you were wondering) before casting Blankee to the floor and carrying on with his day.
Then mommy got a new job. And our toddler went to daycare.
We're lucky enough that Kevin's mom was able to watch our son while we both worked. She got him into a routine for nap time but quickly realized that he would NOT sleep without his special blankee.
But some mornings it was dirty, so we'd have to send him off without..... not a good idea. "He NEEDS his blankee," Grandma implored. "Please send it, it's just as important as packing his diapers and lunch." (Please note, the same woman who gave the child this blanket is now requesting it to be available at all times. Thanks, Grandma!!.... and yes, we still love you.)
Since when is a blanket as important as feeding and clothing a child? Well, when you're attached to some "thing", I guess it's pretty important.
Which leads me back to my complaint.... why God. WHY? Why did our son fall in love with this particular blanket?? It took me two hours on the Internet and phone to locate a store that had it in stock. I was horrified by the listed prices from websites in the US (none of which, of course, shipped to Canada).
I drove over an hour from my home to pick up a duplicate of this blankee, so he'd have one at home and one at daycare. I was absolutely horrified at the price..... sit down for this please. Including tax, it came to $69 and change.
Gah!! Why couldn't you love a two dollar washcloth instead?? My boy's got expensive taste!
