My Dearest Nankie With The Holes In It;
Let me say, first, that we tried desperately to get our Zoe to shorten your name. We tried "Blankie" but she wasn't great with 'b's yet. You were "Nanket" for awhile, but I guess she felt the need to be specific after that one time that she got tricked into putting you into what became the longest wash cycle in the history of washing machines. And so, you became "Nankie With The Holes In It", long since she has learned to pronounce the word 'blanket,' but she still calls you Nankie. So do the rest of us.
You were presented to me as a loving, handmade gift from Zoe's aunt, whose own sweet daughter was born just two months after Miss Zoe. Truth be told, I didn't ever plan for you to become a daily, must-have object. I wanted you well taken care of, I wanted you cherished and safe on a shelf somewhere. As has always been the case, Zoe had other plans.
If I am honest, I can not remember a time when she wasn't thoroughly attached to your presence. You've seen her through some difficult times. You kept her safe that first night in her brand new toddler bed. You've taken countless naps with her. You went to an awful lot of time-outs with her. You went to daycare with her, stuffed into the smallest pink backpack. You kept her warm during several moves to different houses. We all (and I do mean EVERYONE), spent a sleepless night without you when you were accidentally left behind at a hotel. You've kept her grounded and reminded of home during sleepovers with family. You rode in the car with us on her way to her first day of preschool. She wanted desperately to take you to her first day of Kindergarten. You hid in her backpack during a particularly difficult stretch of separation anxiety during first grade. I cut one of your errant strings and tied it to her shoelace so she always had you with her once. You made a couple of VERY bad days of second grade so much better by just being in the same place she left you when she got home.
I am grateful.
I am also fearful.
Everyday, I know that she is inching further away from you, from us both.
How do I know? She was willing to leave you behind on her recent 9 day trip to her grandparent's house. Leave you for me, in case *I* needed you. Don't get me wrong, Nankie, old friend, she asked if I wanted her to leave you, but she was visibly grateful that I declined the offer.
Tonight she asked me if I thought she was 'too old' for you. Her question was prompted by someone else, someone who told her that she was, but I could see the fear in her eyes about having to give you up. And I could feel the heaviness in my own heart at the thought of her no longer needing you.
Is she too old? I don't know. I only know that you've become a comfort to me, as much as to her. I know that there are several more holes in you now that there ever used to be. I know that you were given to her in a perfect rectangle shape, and eight years of love and washing have nearly split you in two. I know that you were a collage of pastels a long time ago, and now you seem mostly gray. I know that often times, she doesn't think of you at all until bedtime. I know that while she was gone at her grandparents, when she called to say goodnight, I pictured my round-faced, dark haired toddler, clutching you to her cheek. I know that I am not ready to let you go, either of you, even for a moment.
There will be a time that you will end up being a relic of her childhood. You will end up in a box, with her favorite pig stuffed animal and odds and ends. It will be the box I keep. The one I will sit and look through when I am missing my little girl. Perhaps I will tie one of your faded strings to her shoelace when she leaves for college. Maybe I will tuck a piece of you away into her flowers at her wedding. Maybe, when her own precious children are born, I will present you again to her.
Is she too old for you? Not tonight, Nankie. Tonight, you are safely wrapped in her arms while she sleeps away peacefully. You are not a relic, just yet. Tonight, she still needs us both.
