After enduring a few stitches and a couple of minor surgeries, it was a relief when the most recent operation was successful. My seven-year-old son, Drew, was thrilled. These were always rough times for him, but the older he got, the easier they became. With this last attempt, a few more months, maybe even a year, was added to the life of his favourite blanket.

With a look of sadness and concern in his blue eyes, he approached me one morning last week, holding his blanket like it was a wounded animal. His blonde hair was going in all possible directions, obviously the result of a rough night’s sleep.

“Mom,” his voice cracked. “There are more holes. Can you fix them?” I looked at the lifeless piece of fabric in his hands. I gently picked it up by the corners to assess the recent damage. There were a few big holes and frayed edges. Being careful not to pull on any of the life-bearing threads, I said to him, “I will see what I can do Honey.”

Like a skilled surgeon I carefully examined the patient. This was not going to be easy, but I came up with a plan. I called Drew over for my prognosis. “Your blanket isn’t looking so good. If it is okay with you, I will sew it to some other fabric and patch up the holes. Ok?” He agreed.

The next morning, he reluctantly put his priceless possession into my hands and left for school. I felt I should have had him sign a medical release form before he left. — Beliefnet.com