Wrapped with love

My daughter has blankets. Many blankets. Many homemade blankets.

Each was made for her with love. Although it would be fantastic to pass them down to her in pristine condition when she prepares to have a child of her own, I am of the belief that those blankets were made to be used. Lovingly and carefully used.

I'm still pulling blankets from her closet as needs arise (or laundry piles) and introducing her to yet another design and texture. My goal from the get-go was to not get her attached to one, single blanket. This is because her blankets are one-of-a-kind, a dirty or misplaced or (heaven forbid) ruined are not easily cloned by a backup. She has her favorites, but I offer one for only as long as one week before giving her another to snuggle as she sleeps.

The other night, she was given a choice between two blankets. She pulled both up to her cheeks, and selected the softest of the two. The blanket of choice was an afghan nearly as long as I am tall. It is approximately 1/2 inch think. It was 75 degrees in the house with the air conditioner running.

She chose it, so she got to keep it.

We curled up in the recliner as per our bedtime routine. As she nursed, the blanket was wrapped partially around her and mostly draped over me. It is incredibly soft. Made just for her. Every inch of yard woven into a unique, personal hug. The most interesting part of it is that the blanket was made for her over two decades ago.

MY great grandmother had crocheted it - and passed it on to be stored for my baby. The feather soft yarn reminds me of her lose snow white curls, her demeanor, her heart.

My memories of my great grandmother have a sepia patina. I remember her making quilts. I remember her bright blue itchy carpet and her serving Hawaiian punch in juice boxes. My last memory of her is at my grandma's. I stood beside her in a half-hug as she complimented my panda patterned shirt. She asked if she could have it when I out grew it to use in a quilt. I agreed. I remember feeling guilty when I outgrew the shirt because she was no longer alive to cut it into perfect squares to incorporate into one of her signature throws.

I knew nothing of this afghan until my baby shower early last fall. I received it and a card from my grandma. Tears flowed.

I sat, sweating, wrapped in a hug from a woman I adored with my sleeping daughter. Happy. Loved.