Wednesday, July 10, 2013

A Night-Nightmare

Warning: This is a post that might make grandmothers cry, so if you need to be at a social event within the next half hour, maybe wait and read this later.

Yesterday, the unthinkable happened. Sam lost his lovey, which is named Night Night.  He and I literally turned the house upside down to no avail. The couch is the last place we remember him having it.
The couch, post Night Night search & rescue

So, for the first time in at least 3 years, Sam went to bed without his blanket.  As I lay there beside him, rubbing his back while he sobbed quietly, I racked my brain. (Side note:  In case you're wondering about that spelling of the word rack, you can set your mind at ease -- "rack" is right (as opposed to "wrack") -- see:  We had looked outside, inside, everywhere. I even went into his bin of infant memorabilia thinking that perhaps I had saved a piece if it after one of the times when we hacked it into pieces (due to filth and choking-hazard potential).  I went through the laundry, dirty & clean.  I looked under beds, between mattress & box spring, between mattress & headboard/footboard, and under all couch cushions & both couches.  I looked in the pantry, freezer, refrigerator, toy box, Lego, marble track , and Lincoln Log bins.  I even looked up the chimney.  

I considered the Security Blanket Grim Reaper possibility. But even the Grim Reaper would be repulsed by Night Night.

Sam & Night Night (before NN was clipped into smaller pieces)
I'm not sure who is sadder, me or Sam.  I'm sad because it's one of the last vestiges of his babyhood.  I'm also sad because he hardly slept last night.  Sam is sad because he has nothing to suck on and sleep with and jam down his throat when he feels insecure.  I suggested a thumb, the sheet, his quilt, my night shirt, etc., and he dutifully tried all of them with WAY more enthusiasm than he has ever shown about new foods, but none could replace Night Night.  So he cried for awhile, and then stopped and stared into space, the way we all do when we're lying in the bed, tired of crying, and numbed by sadness.  

Tonight we'll likely begin the begin the search anew.  I promised him we would keep looking, but after today, I can't bear to keep his hopes up.  In my rational mind, I know that this is good -- he is 3.5 and already goes all day at school without it (including naps).  But my mommy mind says: Keep Looking, as if it's my child who's lost, and not just a scrap of stinky, dirty fabric that we all affectionately refer to as "Yuck Yuck," whose owner even once said was, "too disgusting to take into Chick-fil-A" (the same CfA in Alabama where he threw up immediately after walking through the front door).  

Wish us luck.  

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