I don’t think I was ever a “security blanket” type person. Oh I do remember a rather ratty teddy bear which came about with me for a while, but I think it was more of a friend than a blanket. I wasn’t a doll kind of little girl, growing up as I did with three older brothers, who I am quite sure would not have tolerated such feminine sympathies, and I’m fairly sure I didn’t have a favorite blanket.

I don’t think I was ever a “security blanket” type person. Oh I do remember a rather ratty teddy bear which came about with me for a while, but I think it was more of a friend than a blanket. I wasn’t a doll kind of little girl, growing up as I did with three older brothers, who I am quite sure would not have tolerated such feminine sympathies, and I’m fairly sure I didn’t have a favorite blanket.

My youngest brother had his blankie, as folklore would have it, and he would stand looking most forlorn at the washing machine if my mother ever had the stealth and guile to wrest it from his small person when it was threatening to sprout legs and walk away, so full of filth it was.

He would then follow Mum around like a small lost sheep, apparently, waiting for her to hang it out on the clothes line to dry. With determination, outside he would go. He would reach up one hand, clutch the soggy satin binding, and firmly implant his other thumb in his mouth, very patiently awaiting the sun to dry the blanket.

My darling daughter, Madam, had her favorite scarf. Not just any scarf, you understand – it had to be silk. Mum was horrified seeing her gorgeous granddaughter drooling away over something quite so luxurious, and she tried, in vain I might add, to wean her onto much cheaper polyester. Nope, Madam was having none of that, and firmly attached herself to silk. I always had a spare one in the drawer, just in case, as it didn’t matter the size nor the pattern, just the quality of the fabric.

So it has been with much amusement that I have finally come to realize that my husband now in his sixth decade, light of my life, my best friend, Sir, still – STILL – has two security “blankets.”

One is a worse for wear Mizzou sweatshirt, whose neck hole has been so stretched over the years he threatens with each passing winter to reveal décolletage. Naturally the sweatshirt is a pale color – I will take a stab at pale grey when it was born – but has picked up years and years of spills, slops and dribbles so it takes on a rather quaint overall general pastel tone.

In a fit of tidying I vowed I was going to declutter the closet and a look of alarm overtook his face as he imagined his beloved sweatshirt being tossed out to the local needy. His look almost shrieked “but I am the local needy,” and he bellowed at me that if I had the temerity to touch his shirt, there would be hell to pay. Hey, I don’t need to be told twice when he’s in that mood, and so his scurfy shirt still hangs in the closet.

Sir also has his “pillow.” I put this in quotation marks, as it in no way resembles anything upon which I would lay my head. I’m not entirely certain when this particular pillow sprang to life, but I will take bets that it would have been probably about 50 years ago.

He likes it a certain way on the bed and with an indelible marker has written x’s along one edge, so I know – and I suppose he does – which end should be closest to the pillow case opening and therefore uppermost as well.

I have tried – oh how I’ve tried – to persuade him to switch to a new version, but he won’t be swayed. He will give the new model a try out of approximately 3.4 minutes and will throw it on the floor in total disgust as he unearths the old one.

Now we have a technical problem. Sir has been having trouble sleeping and so his doctor has set him up for a sleep study night. I did suggest the fault might lie with the pillow, in the lost hope he might see reason.

And what does the hospital tell him to take? You got it, oh bright and intelligent reader – his pillow.

I am quietly horrified. What will the nurses think of me, allowing such an object to be brought into their sterile establishment? Can I make a suggestion, that if you are planning on being anywhere near a hospital around Sept. 1, run like the wind! Get sick the next day. Don’t get sick at all. Schedule surgery for October – by then surely the institution could’ve initiated a fumigation process.

I did tackle him – gingerly I might add – on this topic.

“But darling, it’s as hard as a rock. I’m sure it started life as a kind of feather pillow, but I’m positive by now it has metamorph’d into horse hair at best, dirt at worst.

“I could go and dig up part of the garden and throw it in a pillow case and it would be cleaner than your pillow, for heaven’s sake,” I went on.

But he will not be deterred. Off he will go with his birthday suit pajamas (not quite sure how he’s going to get around that, not so small, problem), and his pillow.

No doubt, he’ll take his Mizzou sweatshirt as well.

No wonder I work under my maiden name, I’m telling you.