[Author’s Note: You might find it ironic that my son, dog, and bunny are exotically named “Borealis”, “Andromache”, and “Forscher” (respectively), but my son’s blanket is merely called, “Blankey”. If you’re curious, the answer is yes, most of Bo’s toys have pedestrian names like “Turtle” and “Elephant”. Apparently, my originality only extends to animate entities.]
I like to imagine that one day, Borealis will be a well-liked and charismatic kid, with friends aplenty. Right now, though, he mostly just has the one friend — his best friend. Bo’s best friend is there for every nap and every bedtime. His friend is never far during playtime, bath time, or dinnertime. His friend wipes away every tear, every crumb, and every booger.
Bo’s best friend is named Blankey, and man, does that blanket get disgusting.
To be fair, it’s not Blankey’s fault. After all, the identity of a lovey is subject to the whim of its owner, and Bo’s blanket is certainly not the first to become a combination of best friend, pillow, and snot rag. Even so, I can’t say that I’m fully acclimated to the blanket’s slovenly habits (yet).
If I got my way, Blankey would be washed several times a week. Alas, I do not get my way. Borealis is militantly opposed to losing his lovey for any extended length of time — even if it’s for a good reason. Accordingly, I usually try to sneak Blankey into the wash right before we leave the house, which yields a fresh (albeit damp) blanket upon our return. At this point in my pregnancy, though, I’m not always in a fit state to leave the house — so sometimes, I have to be a bit sneakier about Blankey’s washings.
A few days ago, I realized that I could literally smell my son’s blanket from a few feet away. It was one of those “not up for leaving the house” kind of days, but the situation still demanded an immediate remedy. So, that’s what I attempted to provide.
After verifying that my son was thoroughly engrossed in emptying the toy bin, I crept up behind him, snatched Blankey off the floor, and tip-toe sprinted away. So far, so good. Bo was seemingly none the wiser.
I quickly assessed the situation. The longer that Blankey was absent, the more likely that Bo would notice said absence — and I wasn’t eager to exacerbate Bo’s preexisting cranky mood. Therefore, while I would have preferred to subject Blankey to a more thorough cleaning, I settled instead for our washer’s sixteen-minute-long “Rinse and Spin” cycle.
I held the “Start” button until the washer emitted a telltale click!, and then I slipped quietly back into the living room. Thankfully, Bo was still contentedly strewing his toys across the floor. I silently applauded myself for such a successful espionage mission.
My applause lasted about five seconds — or, rather, the length of time between the washer’s telltale click! and the flow of water into the washing drum. Bo may have failed to hear the former, but he did not fail to hear the latter.
Now, the start of a wash is probably nothing exciting for you. For my son, however, the endless revolutions of the washing machine are a source of perennial delight. Therefore, the inaugural sounds of a wash herald forthcoming entertainment to Borealis — and if there’s anything my kid loves, it’s the prospect of being entertained.
I realized my mistake as Bo abandoned his toys and bolted for the laundry room. I struggled to keep up, impotently pleading, “No, baby — Bo, come on — let’s go read a book instead?”
Alas. My efforts were futile. I watched helplessly as my spirited son reached the washing machine, pressed his face against the door, and — finally — recognized the prisoner within. Immediately, he tried to wrench open the door, only to find that it was locked. And with that, he promptly burst into tears.
By this point, I too had reached the washing machine. I awkwardly stooped to pick up my son, then staggered back to the living room.
“How about we read a book?” I offered again.
Bo relented for approximately one-and-a-half read-throughs of Goodnight Moon, then wriggled off my lap and dashed back to the laundry room. Once again, he stood before Blankey’s prison and wailed piteously.
This time, I attempted an explanation. “Bo, Blankey is taking a bath right now. It’s getting clean, because it was really dirty. Blankey will be out of the bath soon, and then you’ll get Blankey cuddles again.”
Bo’s responding glare was easily as dirty as Blankey had been. I know he understood at least a handful of my spoken words — namely, “Blankey”, “bath”, and “cuddles” — but for all I know, he strung those words together into a much more sinister sentiment, like, “Blankey is currently drowning in the bath, and now you’ll never get Blankey cuddles again.”
Somewhat lamely, I once more carried my son back to the living room and settled onto the couch. My subsequent half-hearted attempts to revive his interest in Goodnight Moon met with no success. Instead, Bo immediately ran back to the washing machine and began wailing with such vigor that I figured I should probably take a picture.
You can just see on the top-right corner of the washing machine that — nominally — ten minutes remained in the rinse and spin cycle. So, that’s what I told Borealis. “Only ten more minutes, baby. Blankey will be done soon!”
Belatedly, I thought to offer Bo some milk. The dairy somewhat calmed his emotional turmoil, which was a relief for both of us. Then, I settled my bulk onto the tile floor of the kitchen and talked my son through the next “ten minutes”.
You best believe I was grateful that Borealis does not yet have a solid grasp of numbers or time, because — ten minutes later — the timer still displayed a daunting blue “7”.
“Seven minutes?” I suggested weakly. Bo whimpered in response.
Somehow, my simple desire to wash Blankey had turned into a psychically scarring ordeal for the both of us. The prospect of waiting for another twenty-plus minutes was overwhelming, to say the least.
Thankfully, that was not to be our fate. Just a minute later, the wash timer showed that only five minutes remained. Another thirty seconds, and that number was down to four.
Apparently, my washer’s understanding of numbers and time is about as nebulous as Bo’s.
At this point, neither Borealis nor I could tear our attention from the washing machine. After another thirty seconds, the timer dropped from “4” directly to “1”. Excitedly, I told Bo, “One more minute! Last minute!”
Notably, “one” and “last” are words that my son understands — more or less. At my pronouncement, he once again plastered his face against the washing machine window and pleaded inarticulately for his incarcerated best friend. Had there been room, I might have joined him.
As though it were purposely building suspense, the washing machine drum spun slower, and slower, and slower — until finally, it stopped altogether. Bo tried once more to open the [still locked] door, then looked to me for an explanation. I shrugged in response. The rinse and spin cycle was clearly over, but the timer still displayed an inhibitory “1”.
After the longest minute of our lives (which, truthfully, might have been longer than a single minute), the washer finally uttered another telltale click!. Bo immediately pulled at the door, which, while now unlocked, was still too stiff for him to open. As he squawked indignantly, I lifted him out of the way and opened the portal between him and his blanket.
I really wish I had recorded the murmurs of relief and joy that my son made as he was reunited with Blankey. For all the world, it sounded as though they had been separated for weeks, rather than for [about] sixteen minutes.
“Do you want me to dry Blankey at all?” I asked, pointing to the dryer. My son glowered at me, then ran off with his still-damp blanket. At least it was a warm day.
Bo soon forgave me for stealing away his best friend — or, at least, he forgot to keep holding a grudge. And as for me? Well, I wished that I had bitten the bullet and left the house for the length of a full wash.
After all, Blankey still kinda smelled.