The lamentations and wailing in this house are at a fever pitch. I’m pretty sure you could hear it from Cofton Park, a miserable wail carried to you on the fresh October breezes:
“Baaaaaankit, ohhhh my bankit, oh dear!”
Inside the house, Bean squats in front of the washing machine, moaning and groaning. Her racket actually manages to pierce through the sound of the machine’s 1200-rpm spin cycle. When not in total despair, she gets angry, beating the machine with a stick and a stuffed fish. You see, we are washing her blanket, and she will not rest until she can cuddle it again.
Like most toddlers, the Bean has latched on to a security object, in this case a cream-colored blanket that is fuzzy on one side, satiny on the other, and has a Pooh Bear in the center. Also like most toddlers, the Bean struggles with consonant clusters, so “blanket” is known as “Bankit” around here.
Bankit was given to us by longtime family friend Josie, who baby-sat my brother and I back when we were Bean-sized. It has been Bean’s favorite for a good year now, and only recently has become an object of anxiety as well as adoration.
She can’t go to bed without it. If she’s dozy in front of the television and too lazy to get up herself, she will shout “BANKIT! UNGH!”, and the nearest member of staff has to toss it to her. It is a cape and a peek-a-boo screen, a magic carpet and a tent.
It’s also a chew toy. Bean chomps furiously on Bankit in her rages like an Angevin king who’s having a spat with a Pope. As a result, it frequently stinks of sour milk and “Weektabeex”. So into the washer Bankit goes.