I acquired a blanket from my uncles, which I named Silky.
I’m currently using the third version of Silky because the previous two versions crumbled.
At age 39, I have no shame in using a comfort blanket.
When I was pregnant with my kid, my close friends and family asked if I was prepared to pass on Silky, my childhood security blanket.
The answer was two-part but straightforward. First, it poses a choking risk. Second, I own it. The answer was no.
Silky is my blanket. And not that it matters, but I will be 40 the following year and I still require it.
Silky has endured a great deal.
My uncles Michael and Stephen once owned Silky, or I suppose I should say the Silkies, given that I’m on version three of it. However, the boys did not take my enthusiasm for Silky’s power. I do not even know if the blankets had a name. Perhaps this is where everything went wrong?
But to no avail. I adored Silky so intensely that I essentially shredded not one, but two blankets into bits of cloth.
This is where version three and Isa, my best childhood buddy, enter the scene.
By that time, I’m 22 years old, and Silky version two is the size of a napkin – not a complete cloth napkin, but a little paper napkin from a concession stand. My favorite component, the taffeta ribbon that formerly fringed the entire blanket, was reduced to about an inch; the remainder had been worn away.
Isa has known me long enough to recall how Silky appeared in her prime. So, being the kind enabler that she is, she makes me what is now known as V3, the nicest birthday gift I’ve ever received.
It comforts me, and I feel no shame about it.
Isa is one of the only individuals who can mimic the face I make when I softly glide Silky across my face or between my fingers. This taffeta edge is my favorite for tickling my eyelashes, nose, and lips. I will softly stroke the edge between my fingers to feel where the ribbon folds. Occasionally, I hold it over my arm or thigh and lightly bounce it so that the edge dribbles across my flesh. However, I prefer to simply hold it. So that it is easy to locate in the middle of the night, I sleep with it coiled close to my pillow.
If my home suddenly caught fire, I would get my child, my dogs, and Silky in that order.
I have never felt shame regarding Silky. As a child, I would bring it to sleepovers; as an adult, I pack it in my carry-on on road trips. However, I never take it near the campfire when we go camping. Too much to risk.
That does not mean I have not received criticism for having a blanket at 14, 28, 35, etc. But I don’t care. There are worse methods of finding comfort.
And periodically, when I’m talking about my Silky, I meet another blanket-owning kindred spirit. They are all choking hazards with corresponding names.
When I encounter young children with their own blankets, I advise them to hold on tight and never let go, as Silky has been a constant source of comfort for as long as I can recall. I’m betting that comfort is what lulled me to sleep as a newborn, helped me settle down and achieve emotional control as a youngster, made me feel understood as a teenager (even if it was by an inanimate object), and helped me feel a little bit at home when I went to New York.
Now that I’ve established my own house and family, Silky is all mine. In the midst of the craziness of adulthood, parenthood, job, bills, grocery lists, and doctor’s appointments, Silky allows me to slow down and tickle by tickling my face or between my fingers.