My oldest son is gone to a sleepover tonight.
Tucking my youngest in, I looked over at my oldest's bed. Lying on the floor next to his bed was his blanket. We really can't call it a blanket anymore. And it can't even qualify for a rag. It's a bunch of batting with unrecognizable fabric connected with scraps of zigzag stitching after many mending sessions. But he gets mad if we call it a rag.....so blanket it is.
He sleeps with it every night. It panged my heart to see it lying there. He's too embarrassed now to take it to his friend's house because none of his friends have a blanket anymore (so they say). Now he ventures off without it.
I can't even begin to tell the memories associated with that blanket. When one day he discards it completely, it will get put into his memory box....if only because I won't be able to part with it.
It's going too fast.