As a child I had a blanket that I loved.
Blankey was an off-white, fuzzy thermal blanket with a satiny outside border about two inches wide. He didn't get washed very often since our parting was so difficult for both of us, but when he did I loved burying my face in his warm, fresh softness.
It was important for me to show Blankey how much I loved him. I would hug and nuzzle him and tell him repeatedly how important he was to me.
I began to worry, though, that this wasn't enough.
While I was hugging Blankey, I would notice that the part of him that was hanging down from my arms was not being touched. What if that part didn't feel loved? I'd scoop it up into my arms, too. Then I would notice a part of Blankey poking out near my shoulder. What if that part didn't feel loved? Unable to stand the thought of any part of Blankey feeling neglected, I would adjust and shift and hug until Blankey was in a hard little compact ball with my entire body curled around him--trying to touch every single part at once--in a fetal position on the floor.
My mom would say, "What are you doing?"
"Loving Blankey," I would answer in a strained voice, with my face nearly buried in my knees.