The Ritual

“My pink blankie.”

“OK,” I say as I spread it over my daughter.

“My purple one.” I repeat the motion with her purple blanket.

“My red one.” I add another layer. At the end of this process, she is buried under six blankets of varying thickness, square footage, and degrees of fuzzy.

“My pink one,” the little person in her crib instructs me.

“It’s already on there, punkin’,” I inform her.

This was a mistake.

“No, my pink ooooone,” she cries in the dim light. Her breath quickens and the temperature in the room rises.

“It’s here, it’s here,” I insist. I grasp for the specific blanket. Finding it, I pull a small corner and rub it against her cheek. “See, pink blankie’s right here.”

This works, but just barely. Her breathing slows and a cool breeze kisses my cheek, though I may only imagine this.

“OK, thank you, Daddy,” she says. I bid her good night with a song and leave the door open a crack so some light peeks in.

I will repeat this ritual several times tonight, as my life is not my own at the moment.


This story is autobiographical, but written due to a prompt, which was “Blanket.” It’s 10:30 right now. My toddler daughter was put to bed 2 hours ago and is currently on the potty with her Mommy attending to her. While frustrating at times like these, it’s also adorable and completely worth it when she’s laughing about her poopy. I hope you all enjoyed this glimpse of my life at the moment!


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