Help, I’ve Fallen and the Blanket Won’t Let Me Up

Last Christmas, Scott gave me a gift. A big one.
And I don’t mean emotionally big.
I mean physically massive.

Ten feet by ten feet. A full-scale family-sized comforter.
We’ve lovingly dubbed it: The 300-Pound Blanket.

Now technically it doesn’t weigh 300 pounds… but emotionally? Spiritually? Functionally? It’s a silky behemoth that lives on our couch and swallows everything in its path.

When we’re not using it for movie night, we’re usually trying to find the edges.
It’s so big that half the time, someone is lying under a lumpy fold, asking “Is this the end?” like they’re in a psychological thriller.

I swear, we lost Scott for two full days last winter.
Turns out he was just under the blanket the whole time, trying to find the remote.

And yes—we’ve lost phones, too.
Ringing echoes from deep within its polyester depths.
We’ve resorted to mining for devices with a flashlight and snacks.

Spencer?
He wraps himself up like a burrito in it… and then we immediately have to wash it.
Because, let’s be honest—he smells like boy.
(And body spray. And regret.)

There have been actual muscle injuries from trying to lift and flap the thing. It’s like trying to fold a soft, angry tarp during a windstorm.
Most nights, I lie on one end of the couch, struggling to yank just enough blanket to cover a shoulder.
Scott? He just laughs.
Lovingly, of course. But also with full awareness that I am about to throw a couch pillow at his head.

But despite the chaos it brings, the 300-Pound Blanket is our hearthstone.

It’s there for popcorn-movie nights (Spencer insists on making the popcorn himself, and every time I taste it, I get confused—WHY does it have chili powder??) It’s there when I curl up with Scott and promptly fall asleep mid-movie.
It’s there when the three of us cram on the couch and pretend we aren’t constantly elbowing each other for space under the fabric monster.

Oh—and the cats?
Rotos and Siphi have both disappeared under the blanket on more than one occasion.
Sometimes they sneak in where it drapes onto the floor and burrow up inside it like fuzzy little blanket trolls.
All we can see are their tails sticking out—just gently twitching under the edge like they’re mid-mission in a covert feline operation.
We’ve had full family searches only to find them snoozing inside like royalty in a plush palace.

This isn’t just a blanket.
It’s a member of the family.
A giant, smothering, fleece-covered pain in the butt that keeps us warm and wrapped up in each other.

And I love it.
Even when it tries to eat me.