There are mother substitutes and there are mother additions, such that value add to the persona that carries the name mother. Today I will talk about the latter.
Please welcome to the stage my granny robe, yes, the one I have been talking about lately, yes, the one that doesnt seem to be able to stay in the background, like a good robe that I have a love-hate relationship with should. I have and will admit to you that I wear it around the house, but dont ask me to make appearances on TV or to open any schools with it, cause that is beyond the publicity I want to give to my addiction to its warmth and unbeatable softness. Oh, the softness… And I will not be winning any sex-appeal contests with it either, I am aware of this and I have not lost my mind…at least not because of this.
I am addicted to the robe, that is clear, while my son is addicted to the strings of the robe, the ones that hang on each side and help to close up the robe on the inside. I think the second addiction was caused by the first, although I am not sure it really matters, the issues are on hand. Fact.
It all started innocently, as do all addictions I am sure. He would cuddle in me, and me is most likely wearing the granny robe. His hands would wonder about while nursing, and probably got a handle of the little silky strings on one of their expeditions. End of story.
At first he would just hold them, then he started being all creative and twisting his fingers through them and now he has perfected his special move where he wraps his fingers in them.
The strings are requested every time he snuggles in me – Uh! Uh! Uh! – or he just goes for them as I am walking around – GRAB! The strings have entered our nightly routine as well – get dressed, kiss everyone, run to the bedroom in a race with the others to see who will switch the baby monitor on (Dod wins most of the time), enter under the covers, I lay down, he requests the strings, a boob in the mouth and lights are out.
I call them mother additions, because they are not valued when they are not attached to me. For example, I was holding him on the floor and needed to go to the toilet, so put him down and slipped off the robe, hoping he will be happy there with his strings, while I visit the loo. Things looked promising, almost meditative…
“Maaamaaa!” – the pitter patter of little feet followed me in the toilet.
Despite his love of the things, he doesnt melt down when they are not available – I do wash the robe from time to time, although not as often as I should probably. He requests them and if I say I dont have them, he just hums in agreement/understanding and thats the end of it.
This is all fine and sweet and often adorable, but the worst part is that this robe has carved itself a spot in our family history. Now my guilty pleasure in a granny robe will be forever written there, as the strings will go straight into the boy’s memento box.
As soon as he lets go of them, that is.