Birk's blanket, which for some reason she calls Fuji, is missing. There is not much left of this lovey, it is tattered, threadbare and torn--held together with clumsily stitched embroidery thread of every color.
Fuji was gifted to us with our first baby, John. My husband's Godmother gave us this silky soft, 100 percent cotton, dry clean only (I kid you not) white baby blanket imported from Scotland. It covered John when he was a teeny babe in the bassinet and then went on to do the same for Ruth.
We snuggled baby Birk in it, too. Then something magical happened: for some strange reason that only young babies know, she chose that blankie as her special something. It had to go everywhere she went and has had it's fair share of adventures already.
It's best adventure was being left on a plane from Detroit to San Francisco. Our camera, also left on the plane, disappeared, but some kind soul recognized a good lovey when s/he saw it and put it aside. George beamed the hour drive back to the airport and returned with Fuji in his arms.
Now that Birk is 7, she doesn't require Fuji to be present for every waking or sleeping moment. That is why, Fuji has wandered for long periods from time to time. Well, this time, Fuji may have wandered for good. We've turned the house inside out and upside down and searched everywhere we can think that's possible. Fuji has disappeared.
Both mother and daughter are consumed by unexplained crying fits that come and go. It's such a huge icon of her babyhood for both of us. There's a sense of childhood passing and I'm afraid it's really the beginning of her life and my life as big girls together.