Desperation

Back when Tovey was a teeny-tiny and wouldn't take bottles from Daddy while I was doing my long nights at the hospital, Tova manage to find solace in a battered old baby blanket of mine. The blanket, which I named Mankee (pronounced main-key), is as old as I am. He, Mankee is after all a boy, cuddled me on countless occasions quieting my prickly nervous system as I waded through playground disasters and boy troubles and even an occasional college mishap. Mankee maintained his lovely bright yellow rectangle shape, lovingly knitted by my recently departed Grandma Peg (this is the grandma for whom Tova is named!). No wonder Baby Tova took to this relic of love and peace and comfort, Tova and Mankee -- meant for each other.

Sadly, these days, Mankee is more of a mangled and knotted lump of entangled 70's yellow and orange yarn. I sometimes think the only thing holding dearest Mankala together are those knots. But Tova doesn't mind one bit. As she dozes off to sleep at night or when she's stressed and needing a little loving, she sticks her head into Mankee's big gaping holes and fixes her fingers through small openings in Mankee's ragged flash. Then she'll press Mankee tenderly to her cute nose and inhale Mankee's pheremones. Quickly her eyes will roll back in her head, a little drool with dribble from the corner of her mouth and she has become serene.

You just can't give away your baby/childhood/teenage blanket! This is a perfect and very natural transition for my old pal. However, given Mankee's current health issues, my mother sought fit to knit Tova a new blanket. This new blanket, lovingly knit just like Mankee Sr, has been renamed Gwamma Blankie by Tova and instead of replacing Mankee it appears that Mankee has become the mentor for Gwamma Blankie. Instead of fresh and taught Gwamma Blankie accompanying Tova to school (where she stays in Tova's backpack until naptime), Mankee still assumes nap duty with Gwamma Blankie filling in as the role of Robin to Mankee's Batman. In fact, both are frequently snuck into Tova's toddler backpack by a sympathetic older sibling where the two blankies bulge out willy-nilly but happily fulfilling their baby soothing duties.

Attempts to fix Mankee, to piece Mankee back together with new knots and knits and stitching, have all failed and alas Mankee has become even more jumbled and knotted and therefore, even more loved. Given the fragility of Mankee's loose strings and 33-year old yarn, and also recognizing that Mankee was with us for better or worse, my mother brought us a mesh bag designed for washing intimates. Much to Tova's horror, we place Mankee and Gwamma Blankie in that bag together for a good routine washing. After soaking through her diaper last night (Lars was in charge, I was at work), Mankee was pungent and terribly needful of a cold cycle.

Though I tried, unlatching Tova's curled fingers from Mankee's impaired physique as she slept sweetly, her sympathetic nervous system went into flight-or-fright mode and she thundered at me to cease and desist. I, somewhat taller and stronger than Tova, won that worrisome tug-of-war (worrisome because it's hard to imagine Mankee can take much more abuse without pouffing up into a big fluff cloud). I quickly threw Tova's blanket friends into the intimates bag and hit go on our washer. This brought her to near hysterics as she watched the carnage ensue from her spot perching just outside the washing machine. Her face contorted with absolute worry and sorrow.

And now, I have a sleepy baby restlessly pining for her Mankee, ohhhhh Mankee, MankeeMankeeMankee, little fingers searching for a substitute at the fringe on the scarf around my neck, imploring me to bring her fuzzy yellow buddy back from the brink.

Treacherous Mommy. Traitor.