In a conversation with some fellow mommies the other day, we
started discussing the importance of a child’s lovey.
You know, those stuffed animals or blankets or other
unseemly-looking mementos that they cannot live without?
They never choose to love on the item that
Mom and Dad think would be just adorable – instead it’s usually some gift they
received from an obscure relative or that colleague that no one really likes
anyway. The choice is completely random.
Large has a blue blanket that was part of a matching set of
baseball-themed clothes and accoutrements that we got when he was first born, almost 11 years ago.
His Daddy bought the entire set because, since Large was our first
child, naturally everything had to be matchy-matchy.
(One of the many differences between the first child and the
third child . . . At 3-years-old, Large was dressed in an outfit that was purchased as a set at Gymboree; I never would have let Large leave the house in the following
ensemble. With Small, I'm just happy if he's wearing pants.)
The innate problem with Large's lovey was that A: he had to have
it with him at all times and B: since he always had it with him, chances of him
losing it increased exponentially.
See where I’m going with this?
So here's our story: We arrived at LaGuardia airport after trip to the DC
area. We disembarked, loaded Large into
the stroller with all our carry-ons, and began our trek through the
terminal. Suddenly I realized that Large
did not have his blue baseball blanket, but I knew he had had it on the flight.
“We have to go back!” I panicked, but Hubby was
frustrated/grouchy/indignant/annoyed concerned that we would never find it again. I insisted, “we have to try!”
I ran back towards the gate and found a flight
attendant. I’m sure it had been a long
day of shuttling back and forth between New York and Washington, DC, and she was exhausted, but I appealed to her
maternal understanding. Obviously
annoyed, either at our forgetfulness or our indulgence of our son’s every whim,
she reluctantly descended the ramp in order to look in our seat for the
blanket. I crossed my fingers and
waited.
No luck.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t
there,” she replied.
I had a decision to make.
Do I shrug my shoulders, thank her for doing her best, and face my boy’s
disappointment and inablity to fall asleep?
Or do I get all scary-Mommy, fortheloveofgod, dear woman git-yer-@ss-back-on-that-plane and find that lovey!
Guess which one I opted for?
I pulled out the big bat-sh*t crazy guns. “Please!
You don’t understand! This is THE
blanket! The one he HAS to have! He’ll never fall asleep. EVER.
AGAIN. I’m begging you to look
just one more time. Or let ME look. That’s it . . . Let me back on the plane! I’ll
find it!”
This was post-9/11, so even though a misplaced lovey was
indeed a matter of national security and warranted a mad-dash of summer-blockbuster-movie-starring-Will-Smith proportions, she disagreed.
Huh.
I’m sure, somewhere throughout this process, a subtle call
to security was made. She agreed to look
one more time, but assured me it was not on the plane.
I waited patiently.
Okay, so probably not patiently, but I waited like a good law-abiding
citizen.
As if in slow motion, I watched her climb the ramp one last
time. I swear I heard Celebration by Kool & the Gang. She was holding the
blanket. That blue, ratty, disgusting,
booger-encrusted blanket.
“It was stuffed in between the seats,” she smiled. I hugged her and told her she was my
hero. It’s possible I even shed a
tear. I will be grateful to that flight
attendant forever for her willingness to look just once more even though she
was convinced I was CrAzY.
Sometimes it's best to just humor me and do it my way.
