What’s in a name blanket?

Kid Two is missing a blanket. Not just any blanket – his name blanket.

My aunt has given name blankets – like knitted afghans, with their names repeating on one side and a design like hearts or teddy bears on the other – to all of her great nieces and nephews, 16 of them I think – shortly after they were born. Kid Two’s had blue binding and teddy bears.

When we got Baby Three’s, I wanted to take a picture of all of them with their blankets, but we couldn’t find Kid Two’s. I didn’t really worry at first; it’s a crowded house, and things have a way of turning up when you least expect them. But it’s been months, and there has been no sign of it. We’ve searched his room, our room, the cedar chest, boxes of baby things in the basement … no luck. I know we’ve had it within the past two years -- that is, after he moved into his room – because I remember spreading it out on his bed.

So where is it? Did he take it on a trip and forget to bring it home? That’s how Kid One lost her beloved teddy bear last year. Was it in the basement during a flood, and someone tossed it because they didn’t realize its sentimental value and try to salvage it? It wouldn’t have been hard; the blanket is machine washable. Did Kid Two give it to me to put away for him, and now the memory of doing so has left the building? I don’t know.

Kid Two is disappointed that he doesn’t have what he regards as a major keepsake from his babyhood. I feel responsible. If only I were more organized, there would only be one place I would have put it, and there it would be. If only I made the big kids keep their rooms neater, with a place for everything and everything in its place, I would have noticed that it was out of place sooner, and would have had a better chance of backtracking and finding it.

My mother, I am sure, would not have lost it if it belonged to her child.

That thought crosses my mind, and I know it’s pointless. I don’t know how it got lost, so I don’t really know if I was the one responsible. Besides, I’m not my mother. I remember sometimes feeling I would never be able to live up to her standards. I wouldn’t be able to do all the things she can do, like sewing and fixing up furniture and cooking dinner from scratch every night and keeping the house just to the tolerable side of spotless.

I was right. I can’t. But there are lots of things that I do that she doesn’t, and I’ve more or less made my peace with setting my own standards. I can live with more mess and clutter, and I make use of prepared foods sometimes more than I would like, and that’s OK. Until something happens like losing Kid Two’s blanket.

Now Kid One sometimes tells me that she doesn’t know how she’ll ever grow up and do what I do. I get it, I really do, but I think she thinks I’m just trying to make her feel better when I say that she shouldn’t do what I do, she should do what she does, make her own way, and she’ll do just fine.

In the meantime, I’ll say a prayer to St. Anthony (“Tony, Tony, look around. Something’s lost that must be found.”) and hope he comes to my rescue.

Sling thing

One of the new things I have with Baby Three that did not have with the first two kids is a sling. It’s a ring sling – simply a length of cotton sewn on to two steel rings.

It was a gift from my sister, who swears by them. She’s used them with all her four kids.

I used it sometimes when Baby Three was smaller, but not as much as I use it now. When she was tiny, my arms didn’t get as tired holding her, and she just didn’t seem as comfortable.

Now that she’s a sturdy 7-month-old, I can use the sling to hold her on my hip, hands free. Depending on how I adjust the fabric, her hands can be free to reach out and grab things, or tucked in next to me. Her head bobs along just in front of my shoulder.

And I use it all the time. I use it at the skating rink when Frank has hockey practice. I use it to walk to get Caroline at her performing arts program and to walk the dog. I used it while waiting to renew my driver’s license.

I use the sling in a lot of situations where I might otherwise have used a stroller. It doesn’t completely replace a stroller; some walks get long and she gets heavy, and she’s uncomfortable in it when I sit down.

But for lots of things, it’s a lot simpler to more or less tie her to me and get on with my life.

What’s funny is the reactions I get. Store clerks talk to her, maybe because her head is up higher than most babies’. Two young mothers in line at the Secretary of State’s office asked if it really worked. People driving when I’m walking have done double-takes. I’ve heard them say, “That’s a baby in there!”

Baby Three just goes along for the ride. I tend to get a lot of compliments on how well-behaved she is. That’s a little silly; she’s an even-tempered baby (at least, as babies go) and she likes being close to me. Her contentment does not signal super self-control, just a lack of things to complain about.

So thanks to my sister for the sling – the colors she picked coordinate well with just about everything in my wardrobe – and teaching me how to use it.

Thanks to Baby Three for enjoying it. And yes, that is a baby in there.

HAK

Everyone loves to hug and kiss babies.

They’re soft and cuddly and when they snuggle fuzzy little heads into your neck and shoulder, you can’t resist leaning over and kissing them.

When you blow raspberry kisses on their bellies and they giggle, you do it again. And again.

When they reach for your face, you catch their hands and nibble at their fingers.

Twelve-year-olds? Not so much. We’re long past getting kisses in the schoolyard; now I don’t always get a kiss before school at all. Kid One is more likely to friend me on a social networking site than to hug me when she gets out of school, or text me “HAK.”

Even Kid Two doesn’t want to be too close to mom when his friends are around.

But Kid One and Kid Two both love to hug and kiss Baby Three just as much as I do. Seems that babies offer an acceptable outlet for the urge to be affectionate even for big kids. Of course, one of Kid Two’s favorite ways to interact with Baby Three is to let her pull his hair … guess it takes all kinds.

The thing that I have learned watching the three of them is that the bigger kids still want and need affection … even if they won’t admit it and sometimes don’t even know it. As important as the hugs and kisses for babies are a quick backrub, high five or a quick kiss on the top of the head.

Kid Two has picked up a habit of making it a joke. “Mom,” he’ll say, all seriousness, “there’s something I have to tell you …” sounding like he broke the computer or let the dog out of the yard. Then he breaks into a grin and says, “I really love you.”

HAK indeed.

Hands

Baby Three has been making good use of her hands lately, at least from her perspective.

She used them to twirl her hair – short as it is – when she is sleepy, and to chew on when her gums are bothering her. She uses them to grab anything within reach – cell phones are a favorite, and anyone with a coffee cup had best keep it well away from her. Her favorite thing to grab is hair – she prefers Kid Two’s auburn locks, but since he got his back-to-school haircut, that’s not as easy as it once was. So she’ll settle for mine, Big T’s, Kid One’s, the lady in the chair in front of us at hockey registration (sorry!); if it’s hair, it was put on earth for her to pull it.

While she’s going about developing her fine motor skills, I’m having fun watching her hands. They’re chubby baby hands, with dimples at the knuckles and a crease at the wrist. The fingers are slender and long, and their joints are clearly articulated. If she wants to, I think she has a future as a piano player.

Other than the baby fat, they remind me of the hands of Kid One, who, alas, gave up the piano because it took too much practice. But now Kid One likes to wear polish on the long nails that go with the long fingers, and the other day she was wearing a ring. Costume jewelry, yes, but she’s lightyears beyond the plastic Halloween spider rings.

Kid Two’s hands no longer look like baby hands anymore, either. His have turned into boy hands, already showing signs of the man hands he will have as he gets older. The fingers are broad and not as long, with blunt ends and short nails, the better for hockey and baseball.

When Baby Three is with me, she uses her hands to touch me, all the time. She puts them on my arms and face and shoulders. And it’s not just me; she’ll do that to just about anyone holding her.

The big kids, of course, don’t touch as much any more. That goes with the territory. But this spring, when I took Kid Two to a baseball game, he held my hand when we walked from the parking lot into the stadium. It felt wonderful.

I’ve got some time before Baby Three progresses to handholding, but then I’ve got a few years left. Another thing to give thanks for.