Life Lessons
My cohort student taught a lesson that referenced The Velveteen Rabbit, and it got me thinking because that story profoundly affected my life. I was small when I first came across it. I don't remember if I read it first or saw it on one of those reading shows like Reading Rainbow. I just remember it.
Most vividly I remember how much that little boy loved his little velveteen rabbit. They were the best of friends, and he was devastated when the boy contracted scarlet fever. The boy was sick for a long time, and at the end of his illness, all of his possessions were burned to eliminate the germs.
This story stuck with me because every time I got sick I was terrified my germs would infect my baby blanket and it would have to be burned. Even though I always drew comfort from that blanket (I cried all night when Grandma took it overnight to fix the hole-y back), I refused to keep it near me when I was sick JUST IN CASE it had to be burned.
To this day I push my blanket away when I'm sick. I can't risk it becoming germ-infected and getting burned. I'd cry.
Similarly, I once read a Babysitter's Club book starring Stacey (I think). She put her charge's baby blanket in the dryer. When it came out, it stuck to the appliance and she ripped it off in sheets. I was so mortified that I vowed then and there to never put my blanket in the dryer.
Last April, Momma took one look at my dingy blanket and convinced me it needed to be washed. I explained, with great horror, that washing my blanket would result in it being peeled off the dryer in sheets, and then I would have to cry big tears, never to be consoled. She told me I was being ridiculous and washed my blanket anyway. I spent the entire time in a cocoon of fear, convinced I was a living repeat of that Babysitter's Club book.
I wasn't. My blanket is fine, and cleaner than it's been in years.
And that, my friends, is the power literature can have on a person.
Most vividly I remember how much that little boy loved his little velveteen rabbit. They were the best of friends, and he was devastated when the boy contracted scarlet fever. The boy was sick for a long time, and at the end of his illness, all of his possessions were burned to eliminate the germs.
This story stuck with me because every time I got sick I was terrified my germs would infect my baby blanket and it would have to be burned. Even though I always drew comfort from that blanket (I cried all night when Grandma took it overnight to fix the hole-y back), I refused to keep it near me when I was sick JUST IN CASE it had to be burned.
To this day I push my blanket away when I'm sick. I can't risk it becoming germ-infected and getting burned. I'd cry.
Similarly, I once read a Babysitter's Club book starring Stacey (I think). She put her charge's baby blanket in the dryer. When it came out, it stuck to the appliance and she ripped it off in sheets. I was so mortified that I vowed then and there to never put my blanket in the dryer.
Last April, Momma took one look at my dingy blanket and convinced me it needed to be washed. I explained, with great horror, that washing my blanket would result in it being peeled off the dryer in sheets, and then I would have to cry big tears, never to be consoled. She told me I was being ridiculous and washed my blanket anyway. I spent the entire time in a cocoon of fear, convinced I was a living repeat of that Babysitter's Club book.
I wasn't. My blanket is fine, and cleaner than it's been in years.
And that, my friends, is the power literature can have on a person.