He pets his blankie like a cat, rubs his face in it, and hugs it to his chest, 25,000 times a day. It's an appendage, a must-have, a deal breaker. Once we tried to put him to bed with a substitute. He sobbed and sobbed and when Andrew went in to see him, Elliott pointed to the offending blankie substitute with a quivering lip and tear-stained cheeks and shook his head. Absolutely no. Not mine.
Comforter, plaything, warm covering, pet, hiding place, snot rag, chew toy and constant companion. What else could possibly provide all this goodness? One very long piece of yarn transformed by two wooden sticks. Ahhh, knitting. In 20 blankie-filled months, Elliott has become a very big fan.
(As for the heavy metal sign in photo one, it is just genetic. There is no other explanation.)
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