My children seem to have an inordinate attachment to their blankets. Not just a Linus-like attachment to one. All of the blankets they have been given since birth are piled on the beds each night. Each children knows which blanket belongs to whom and who gave it to them. Layers of crib-sized blankets are topped with more appropriately sized blankets and comforters. This is not necessarily a bad thing given our location, but it does make bed-making more complex.

The other night, as I lay down in the girls’ bed to sing bedtime songs to Sarah, I noticed the different layers and started to think of the many different hands that made them. A small tied quilt and a knit blanket made for Lizzie by my mother-in-law. A blanket crocheted by a church member for Sarah and delivered to the hospital by the pastor right after she was born. A quilt I pieced and hand quilted for Lizzie. A blanket crocheted by a friend for Sarah. On top of all of these layers, there is a full-sized scrap quilt that my great-grandmother made.

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It’s hard to feel bad about tucking them in under so many layers made by hand with so much love.

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