Wrapped in Love
I remember sitting on a birth ball, bouncing, my hook going in the hole, pulling the yarn through. Stitch after stitch. And with every few stitches, I could feel you move.
Hook in.
Catch the yarn.
Pull it through.
Kick.
Only days away from my due date, I was frantically trying to finish the blanket. The one I wanted to wrap you up in when you were born. The one I wanted to bring you home snuggled with.
The softest cotton, a beautiful, soft green.
This was going to be your blankie. The one that I wrapped you in for pictures. The one that would keep you warm. You would thread your fingers through it as you grew.
When you brought it down from your bed to the couch, that’s how I would know you were tired, or sick.
As you got bigger, it would be a fort, a superhero cape, or a race car track. You would fight your brother for it, because of course, he wants to be just like you and that means stealing your things.
Eventually, it would get a little threadbare, from being dragged everywhere.
Slowly, it will spend less time around your shoulders and more time at the foot of your bed; no longer your most valuable possession.
Eventually, it will be packed away. Don’t worry, it won’t be lost. Even though your blankie will fade in your memory, it won’t fade in mine. I will always remember, sitting on that birth ball, bouncing in time to your kicks, stitch after stitch, a symbol of my love and hope and dreams for you.
And one day, in the distant future, you will call me up and tell me that there will be a new baby in our family. And when that baby is born, I will pull out that old blankie, stitched with love, and remind you. I will remind you of the days playing superhero, of the blanket that soothed your fears, wiped away your tears, and made you feel safe.