C was a lovey baby. She cuddled with her burp cloths in her sleep, quickly learning to seek comfort from their oft washed cottony softness. Then she met the doggy and never looked back. I handed him to her while wandering around a Carter’s one lazy shopping afternoon with a pal and had to buy him because within minutes she had soaked his ear with her drool. To my dismay he’s been her closest confidant ever since.
Don’t get me wrong, I love that doggy. I love that she finds comfort in his plush belly. I love that he’s been with her every day and night since the day she met him. I love that he’ll settle her instantly whenever she’s upset. I don’t love that he has a music box in his head and I can’t throw him in the wash. And boy does he need it; the frequent Dryeling doesn’t quite cut it.
I was adamant that I would control the lovey situation the second time around. I’ve been pushing Taggies blankets on Little L almost from day one. There’s always one on hand, or tucked next to her face as she naps in the bouncy or the car seat. She likes it, but she’s fine without. I like it, but I think I’m going to lose the fight.
You see, Little L has a lovey she prefers over all else. A lovey that calms her instantly when she’s upset. A lovey she reaches for when she’s tired or cranky. That lovey is my hand. Either one, she’s not picky. When I reach back into her car seat to fumble for her pacifier I feel her little hands grasp my bigger one and clutch hard. She raises my hand to her cheek and I hear a little sigh of relief. Within moments her grip slackens and her breathing deepens; she’s asleep. In her crib at night when she fusses I just have to place my hand against her cheek for her to relax back into sleep. She sits on my lap and holds my hand, and she always, always reaches for my hands when I’m near by.
I’ll keep pushing the Taggies blanket; it might be hard for her to take my hand to school or to camp with her. But as loveys go, she could have picked much worse. After all, at least I can wash my hand easily.