His Weighted Blanket

I couldn't take a picture of the scene because he needed both of my arms. So, instead I close my eyes tightly. I try my best to take a mental snapshot, envisioning it, hoping it is landing in the corner of my mind. A picture of my own. A rare moment, just us, my first born and me, not his sister. He is now eleven. Not little but almost a teenager. Somehow tonight I have one arm in each crook of his neck with Doggy the stuffed animal sandwiched in between. I couldn’t dare risk lifting an arm and breaking the spell, the moment in time. He was still. He was quiet. Just us breathing. He stretched out over my whole body, facing away from me. My first born boy took up the whole length of the bed. His hair is long and in his eyes. I managed to brush it back as I rubbed his head. I could peek over and see that silhouette of that face, those cheekbones and those same long lashes. His eyes are peacefully shut.  

I felt right back there in that big room with the woodwork, cedar closet, and tall buildings outside of the window. I was laying in my bed on Sunnyside Avenue, our first home, with this long baby curled on me. His big head nuzzled under mine. His neck was uncomfortable with Torticollis, so my arms cushioned it with support even if my hands went numb. He needed to be chest to chest and bound up tight, only after he had digested his milk, as he needed time to do his spitting up. It was symbiotic. Then, it was baby breathing and the smells of milk, baby bath, diapers, and that baby smell we don’t even have a word in the dictionary for. That smell.

But now in this room covered in Eagles and Phillies memorabilia and strewn with laundry, in this home, he is freshly showered with a touch of sweat and remnants of chlorine still from the swim club earlier in the day. I smell popcorn, too. Both smells are distinct and I actually shut my eyes and take it in, because in five more years, I will long for tonight’s smells. Just like now, I long for the baby smells. 

This is what he wanted before his bedtime, and because I had been too vulnerable to go ahead and ask for a tuck-in of the past these days, and maybe he didn’t have the words himself; he found a way to nudge right up pretending to mess with my hair then settled right in the crook of my arm. There we stayed in my bed; occasionally, we had words, and random ideas or stories to share- Marvel movies, his favorite songs, Bryce Harper’s latest hitting streak, which animals have the best memories, his architectural vision for a fort in the yard, and his growing birthday gift list. 

Jay and I are used to talking. He is usually sharing his perspectives, sometimes with much conviction, and what is annoying him about his sister or whatever situation we are in. I feel like sometimes I am with a real life lovable mini Larry David.

Tonight, he wasn’t telling me what’s what. He wasn’t venting grievances from the day. He was just talking and sharing his “shower thoughts'' as he calls them. I just listened. Not wanting to break the spell.

It was time to sleep, so I guided him into his room. I could tell by his expression, he realized he was under a spell, all zen and with his guard down, just surrendered to his mom’s heartbeat and warmth like the old days. He started dragging out the bedtime once in his room. He realized his beloved weighted blanket, worn, baby blue, and all knowing and powerful, was all the way in the basement and he said he could not sleep without it. That blanket has served as a panacea of sorts through the years, thunderstorms, arguments with his sister, bad dreams, or just to settle the system after a rowdy night. Instead of creeping down to the basement to get that painfully heavy blanket, I didn’t appease Jay. 

I took a risk and I impulsively whispered, “Sorry, work with what ya got, bud. If you need weight, I will lie right on top of you. That heavy thing of yours is all the way down the basement.” I was half joking but threw it out there. 

Jay curiously took me up on that. So, I tucked him in with his two out of three blankets- one being his fuzzy, maroon Mommom blanket, the one my mom gave him before she passed away from cancer. The other, his thin gamer Christmas gift. 

He said, “Go ahead, my third blankie,” with a smirk. 

I stretched out; my body weight just heavy on his legs pushing those blankets in even tighter, resting my hand on his chest to feel his heart beat as I did when he was a baby. He didn’t tell me to get up. He just breathed in and out and we stayed like that quietly. Finally, when I got up, he said, “five more minutes?” 

So, ten more minutes, he got, because it never really ends at five. My big boy swaddled up in his blankets with mom enveloping him with love, weight, and peace to end the night. It did probably look wacky as heck though. At minute six, I whispered out my stanza from, “Hey Jude,” his old lullaby. I then tip-toed out with a relieved smile.

We all feel a weight. Our weights are invisible; we carry them through our days. Our kids have their own. Some kids more than others- divorce, house switches, navigating social lives, friendships, bullying, school demands, family dynamics. As parents we can try to take some of the load off. Sometimes we simply can not. But, we can keep our eyes and ears open when they just need to lay their heavy bodies on us without question. Or, when they need us just as their weighted blanket, not another weight. The firm but soft grounded comfort that keeps them warm and still as they slow themselves down and rest before another day begins.