Kissing Hand Quilt

When Kim and I first got together, Kim had plans to adopt a dog from the local Humane Society, and I had plans to study Spanish in Guatemala.

The dog, Kailin, ended up having some pretty considerable abandonment issues, and I ended up truncating my trip by several months—but for the love of Kim, not so much the dog.

Regardless, the dog expressed devotion to me during my five weeks away. He spent days wandering Kim's apartment with my t-shirt in his mouth.

Flash forward 14 years. Kim and I are living in our own house with our three-year-old, Anakin. Kim is the traveler this time; her work frequently takes her away from me and the little boy she gave birth to. It's a routine that is agonizing, particularly for Anakin.

To help we find The Kissing Hand, a picture book (by Audrey Penn) about Mrs. Raccoon sending her baby off to school for the first time. Mrs. Raccoon plants a kiss in little raccoon's paw and tells him it will comfort him throughout his time without her. We read The Kissing Hand frequently to Anakin, and he peppers us with the sheet of little heart stickers found at the back of the book.

Still Ani suffers with each departure, and Kim suffers, and I suffer too; he lets me know I am mommy, but alas, the wrong mommy (particularly at bedtime when I am also the wrong tummy for snuggling). It gets me thinking about Kailin and how when I left for Guatemala he found comfort with my shirt.  Kailin died a few months before Ani was born, but Ani loves hearing about him. "Tell me a Kailin story" he is always asking.

So I take two old t-shirts, one of Kim's and one of mine (shirts from trips we had taken), cut out hand prints and sew Ani a small quilt themed around travel and love, separation and return. We call it his Kissing Hand Quilt. I give it to him on the eve of another of Kim's trips, and tell him the story of Kailin, my trip, and my shirt.

The next morning, after wishing Kim goodbye, Ani takes "Kissy" in his backpack for nap time at day care. Later, during pre-school, he continues the routine whenever Kim is away, though the quilt stays in his cubby.  At home, when alone with me, he carefully chooses Kim's fabric hand to curl up with for his bedtime story.

I would love to say the little quilt meant relief from the misery of these separations over which he had no control. I'd love to report that with Kissy we saw an end to those screaming nights. But the truth is while I know it gave him comfort, Kissy would sometimes simply let us know what was wrong.

You see, mostly Ani's tantrums had irrational triggers: the toothpaste had gone on wrong or we had turned off the tub water. Bedtime would sometimes be so impossible that he would yell himself to sleep, untouchable, in the upstairs hall, crumpling finally on the dog's bed. But sometimes during such scenes, and before an impending work trip, we might find that Ani's fit—triggered, say, by our attempt to dry his hair—would climax with that quilt in his hands. In this way we knew what he was dreading (and my heart constricts even to write it).

Now Ani is seven and it's been a long time since he's carried that quilt around (a couple years, really). Mostly it lives smushed somewhere between his mattress and his wall.  Indeed, last week while Kim was in Oregon, he and I snuggled happily at bedtime; we'd call Kim to say goodnight, but it wasn't a disaster when we didn't reach her. Sometimes, too, he'd be busy when she'd call him, and quick to say goodbye. It made it both easier and harder for Mommy#1, since she gets lonely on those nights on the road, and getting ushered off the phone is not what she's after.  It also made it both easier and harder for her to learn how I found him late on her third night away—breathing deeply, one cheek resting squarely in the palm of her kissing hand.

©2010 Eliza J. Anderson