My son has a blanket that he absolutely adores. Well, a couple of blankets really. I’m reminded of little Ken in the 80’s film Mr. Mom with his Woobie, as my little one loves to take his Blanky (the primary dragon-printed flannel quilted version) everywhere with him. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, Blanky looks a little worse for the wear, but were love to manifest itself into a physical object then this blanket would likely be the choice. For me, I frequently think of the quilts & crocheted afghans that my Mom has gifted me through the years–hand-me-down quilts from my grandmother, stitched together with scraps of fabrics my elders wore, & the countless crocheted creations from my mother using new patterns she acquired. There are tubs & trunks of afghans that I’ve never yet used, throw blankets I’m storing for my son & potential generations of future relatives, when they can be loved by those who also can appreciate their warmth & meaning in all manifestations. My sister has her favorite blanket Itchy which she loved until it literally feel apart into scraps. Two years ago, for Christmas I found a replacement Itchy (an old Canadian wool blanket from the late 70’s) in pristine condition & presented it to her. She brings it with her wherever she goes–& she’s in her 50s, showing that those ties to blankets can be pretty profound. I get that & relate to it.

So, I guess you could say I have a thing for blankets, surrounding myself with them. There’s a deep-rooted fondness there connected to innocence & feeling safe.

There’s also something so restorative about seeing pets asleep in blankets–at least for me. I admit to being one of those embarrassing moms to fur babies who have to put up quite woefully with my taking pictures of them more than I probably should. Several of those images have been included in this blog post to offer introvert & blanket-loving readers alike some modicum of visual pleasure. Like watching fish swimming in a tank, the act of gazing upon restful creatures somehow reduces anxiety for me, kind of lulling me into a relaxed state. The images I enjoy most of blankets are the ones with my cats fully stretched out, bellies completely exposed & fluffy, revealing incredible trust in their surrounding environs. I also enjoy the quirky captures of Wicket, the Corgi puppy, who piles onto pillows or burrows into blankets, nestling into comfort like the her majesty in The Princess and the Pea. He really lives up to his pedigree of being a royal pet, looking to survey the kingdom from his perch.

As I’ve noted in previous blog posts about pillows & cocooning, blankets become an invaluable tool for creating a cozy atmosphere or setting; most introverts tend to have throw blankets around just for that extra snuggle. Especially knitted throws. Having one on your lap becomes practically a pet magnet.

A weird thing about me is that I like the interior always a bit cold rather than warm, just so that I can layer & use blankets. There’s a natural burrowing effect that the cold inspires. Maybe it’s the result of growing up in a drafty New England farmhouse that never felt warm, no matter the time of year? My mom had tricks & techniques for the kids to stay warm during frigid winters–sweaters, layers, even electric blankets. Numerous crocheted throw blankets sat in piles in practically every room. If we complained of the cold, we were told to throw on another layer. But we also had a fireplace, wood stoves, hearths to provide heat within a radius. For the frozen months of January & February, I had an electric blanket on my bed to take the chill off. We’d also take hot baths before bed, so we never went to sleep cold. There were strategies, of course. Maybe that has contributed to my penchant for blankets & burrowing? But then there are also the extra fur baby cuddles & the draw of a cup of tea. I could go on. Maybe it’s the visual sumptuousness of piles of blankets, too?

Whatever the reason, blankets make me happy. There’s an enduring fondness they inspire. Is that an introvert thing, or is that just me?