Aunt Mary didn't come to my baby shower. Her eyesight has deteriorated to the point where she only sees shadows, and a trip from Beverly to Sharon might as well have been to California. But she sent a package with my cousins--a small crib blanket, handknit in variegated pinks and blues, whites and purples. It washes beautifully and feels soft and snuggly. It went straight into the bassinette long before Will was born.
Five days past my due date, on what turned out to be the night before Will made his debut, I was laying on the couch, 14 hours into labor already, attempting to get some sleep before we made the trek to the hospital. My mom crept in and, seeing that I was awake, sat down next to me. "I know why Will hasn't come yet," she said. "He was waiting for this."
Another package. This one held a baby afghan, also handmade and soft and snuggly, white with pink and blue fringe on the wide ends.
"Before Nana died, she gave this to me to put away for you. She wanted your baby to have it someday. It's the last thing she crocheted."
It came to the hospital and was the first non-hospital blanket he touched.
The blankets got a bath today--a much needed trip through the washer and dryer, both on the gentle cycle. As I was walking back to Will's room, he looked over the gate and saw me coming with them in my arms. His whole face lit up. "HI!" he exclaimed, walking over to the doorway. One foot made it halfway over the gate before I lost my grip. Two tiny hands below me reached up, wrapped little fingers into the dryer-warm blankies, and pulled them down to his level.
He wrapped one around him, balling up the other and laying down on top of it. The fringe on the end he grabbed and stroked against his cheek, humming a little tune the whole time. Completely content, he looked at me and said his newest word. "Happy."