A Lesson From My Mama

Today I’m going to regale you with a tale that centers around two of the mainstays of my life: my crippling tendency towards over-sensitivity and my obsession with my baby blanket, the legendary Quilty.

For those of you who are new around here (welcome! Please be my best friend) or have forgotten who Quilty is (unacceptable; you must remember every word I ever write!), Quilty is, duh, a quilt. It was made for me by my grandmother when I was a baby, and I have been attached to it ever since.

It’s literally on my lap right now.

Being that it was so important to me, I took really, really good care of it from a very young age. This was not a “drag around the house” blanket, no sir. I took it everywhere (still do), but always very delicately; it would be folded with care and gently and deliberately spread out over me for TV watching and the like. At night it took a bit more of a beating since I liked (and still like…) to cuddle up with it half under my head and half wrapped around me, but thanks to my diligence, Quilty remained in fairly pristine shape for years longer than the pathetic blankets used and abused by most children.

Until one horrifying night in third grade when I discovered that the stitching around the adorable head of an appliqued bunny had unraveled.

I was devastated and more than just a little panicky (what if the entire thing unravels into a pile of thread and stuffing right now in my sad little hands?!), but I was also acutely aware that my reaction was almost certainly inappropriate. Too embarrassed to admit how important Quilty was to me, I kept the tragic news to myself and did my best to act like I was fine as I went about my nighttime routine.

I was able to keep up the ruse for a couple of hours (retreating to the bathroom every 20 minutes for a quick sob), but by the time bedtime rolled around, I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I climbed in bed with my mom and broke down. After a bit of prodding (I’d like to say that she was alarmed by my emotional state, but sadly these types of cry-fests were par for the course; don’t forget about my former life as a loser), I finally admitted that Quilty had sustained a bunny-threatening injury and thus I was in deep mourning.

Any mother worth her salt would engage in some serious comforting when faced with such a sad child, but do you know what this wonderful woman did? She got out of bed, busted out the sewing machine, and re-appliqued that bunny back onto Quilty.

At 10pm.

On a school night.

And I didn’t even ask her to!

My gratitude was immeasurable. After spending hours convinced that Quilty was on death’s door, my mom saved the day (and my sanity). I think I said “thank you” six hundred times that night alone. I was equally thrilled about the gesture (I had never felt so important!) as I was about Quilty’s recuperation.

Quilty is no longer in pristine shape (still not bad for a 29-year-old blanket, though!), and several of the appliques have been at least partially destroyed. I’ve gotten used to the gradual deterioration over the years and no longer sob uncontrollably when a piece unravels — instead, every time I notice a new hole or see another thread coming loose, I think about how awesome my mom was that night and smile. Someday my baby will come to me, crying about a broken truck or a torn teddy bear, and I know exactly what I’ll do: I’ll bust out the glue/sewing machine/toolbox (how do you fix boys’ toys? I should probably figure that out) and make a valiant effort to patch things up.

I’m sure I’ll have plenty of opportunities:

Methinks there are a lot of busted toys in my future.

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Thanks to Mama Kat‘s writer’s workshop prompt (“What one memory from your childhood always makes you smile, no matter what?) for the inspiration!