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.