A Good Day to Jump

I should have seen the warning signs. It had seemed listless of late. Yesterday morning I could even smell urine on it. It should have been clear to me that it had stopped caring. But I was too wrapped up in my blog, my sewing, my all important life to notice what should have been obvious. And yesterday, it took the most desperate action of all, it's life. Pixie's purple baby blanket is no more.

It was shaping up to be the perfect day. I was at Disneyland brunching with faboo friends on a fifth floor balcony of the Grand Californian Hotel. The sun had come out after weeks of gloom and the group of us were relaxing under an overgrown pergola eating chocolate cherry cake. For the afternoon, children were overfed in Africa, the ozone layer had never been thicker and George W. Bush could pronounce the word, "nuclear." The group of us sat around a table laughing and swapping, 'aren't we fabulous' looks while hummingbirds investigated our colorful bags. Then my three year old Pixie tapped my arm. "Mom, where's my purple blanket?"

Some of you may remember this blanket. It's the ratty piece of chenille Pixie has had since birth and carries with her everywhere. "Well where did you have it, sweetie?" I asked. She shrugged and her bottom lip began to quiver. I stretched lazily out of my teak chair and began to look around. The balcony wasn't very large in I quickly deduced the blanket was missing. "Pixie, can you tell me where it might be?"
"I think it fell over the balcony..."

The sight was enough to make my insides churn. From my view over the railing, I could see it laying in a twisted heap below. It had landed on an overhang just above the first floor. There was no way we could reach it.

It seemed to have a peace in death that it never possessed in life. A knowledge that its soul would never again have to endure the atrocities of living with a three year old. The boogers, the pee, the sneezing. For three years it had endured all silently, but on that beautiful day, the ironies of its existence proved too much for our silent purple friend and it took it's own life. The hostess of our lunch joined us at the railing and offered her own words of comfort to my grief-stricken child. "It's okay, honey. From now on, your purple blanket will always live at Disneyland."

And isn't that what we all really want anyways? Rest in peace, purple blanket. The worst is over. Rest in peace.