Comfort object

When I was small I had a beloved blankie. (Heck, I still have it tucked away in a closet.) While my teddy bear (formal name: Theodore Murky Bear) was a playmate and companion for my waking hours, my blanket served to sooth my primal self, the sleepy subconscious of infancy. My memories of being comforted by it are as much tactile as emotional; I can clearly recall its cool smooth fabric against my cheek.

It was a bit larger than a pillowcase, made of white silky polyester with scalloped edges; it had light batting between its outer two layers, and was somewhat quilted. It was once a larger blanket, but my mother wisely cut it in half in case of mishap. (I think she may have given the other half to my brother eight years later!)

Isaac has a baby blanket too. We got it for him when he was about six months old, which my mother says was already too old. Maybe she's right, because he doesn't seem to care about it at all. Personally, I find it a pleasure to touch: the satin on one side is smooth and cool, and the fuzzy fabric on the other side is like long-haired velvet. But although I put it in Isaac's crib every night, and we snuggle up with it almost every time we nurse, I've never seen him pick it up -- not even to toss it out of the crib. Mostly I end up using it as extra support for my elbow.

Ah, well. Perhaps Isaac will find comfort in some other, random object. Perhaps a true love connection can't be orchestrated even through careful online shopping. My grandmother says that my father was quite attached to an old washcloth.

Come to think of it, Isaac does have a comfort object, although not a convenient one -- it's my hair. He runs his fingers gently (usually) through it as he nurses, and when he's worried or upset, he likes to bury his hand at the nape of my neck. Maybe what he really needs is a human-hair wig, or at least extensions.