I Got Into a Fight Over Bed Blankets with a 6-Year-Old

Have you ever whisper-yelled, “No, it’s my blanket!” at a small child, and then grabbed a blanket away from him?

I have.

About a week ago, I went on a family trip to Door County, Wisconsin. It’s great up there. There’s a beautiful coastline, all sorts of aquatic activities to do, and tons of fun shops and restaurants.

Unfortunately, on this particular trip, the house we rented was smaller-than-expected. The main problem was that there just weren’t enough beds, leading to some unlikely bedmate combinations.

Enter Wyatt, my 6-year-old nephew.

Wyatt is a great kid. He’s sweet, fun and silly. He can also, at times, be a bit bossy and demanding, and doesn’t really like to hear the word “no.” When he has his mind set on something, redirecting his course is not easy.

When it came time to go bed on our second night in Wisconsin, it was decided that Wyatt and I should bunk together. This was fine with me. As his uncle, I was a sensible option.

Privately, though, I knew there could be trouble.

Things started off okay. We got into the pull-out bed and evenly draped the blue comforter over ourselves.

“Goodnight, Wyatt,” I said. “Sleep well, buddy.”

“Goodnight, Uncle Colin. I love you,” he responded.

“Love you, too, pal.”

For the next 2-to-3 hours, everything went well. We both dozed a peaceful, uninterrupted sleep.

But then, at about 1:30 am, things took a turn.

I’m not exactly sure what woke me, but suddenly I was conscious, and as I looked down at where the blanket was supposed to be, I saw no such thing. I was uncovered, vulnerable, exposed to the elements. Blanketless.

Meanwhile, Wyatt could barely even be seen under the mountain of blanket that lay atop him. The blanket-to-child ratio was probably 6-to-1. It was absurd!

This had to be rectified immediately. Fifty percent of that blanket (at least!) was rightfully mine, and I was determined to get it back.

At first, I took a genial approach, and tried to carefully repossess my portion of the blanket. But as I was pulling the cover back toward me, I heard a low-pitched grunt, like the sound a bull might make before it charges at a matador. Simultaneously, Wyatt’s grip on the blanket tightened, and his knees slammed shut around it like a vice. No more of the precious cover could be withdrawn.

“So,” I said to myself, “This is how it’s going to be.” The slow-and-gentle approach was not going to work. More drastic measures had to be taken.

I reached back to the edge of the covers and firmly gripped it in both my hands. With a moderately strong pull, I wrested a solid third of the blanket back into my possession. And one third of the blanket, honestly, was enough. I really just needed a small bit of fabric to cover me. That would suffice. And for about 10 seconds, it appeared the conflict was over. Wyatt and I could now fall back into slumber.

But it was not to be.

“Hey, that’s my blanket,” I heard from the voice next to me. “That’s my blanket.”

“No, Wyatt, It’s our blanket, pal. We need to share it.”

“Uncle Colin, it’s my blanket,” Wyatt intoned, the frustration rising in his voice.

“It is not your blanket,” I retorted, the frustration rising in my voice as well.

To this, though, Wyatt did not respond with words, but with actions. In one swift, aggressive lurch, 100% of the blankets were once again Wyatt’s. He had recaptured them.

“Okay,” I thought to myself. “Playtime is over.”

Reaching back over with by arms so I had one on each side of him, I grabbed the blankets as strongly as I could and wrenched them away. If Wyatt wanted a war, he was going to get one. And it was a war he couldn’t win.

Game. Set. Match. And all the goddamn blankets.

Uncle Colin: one. Wyatt: zero.

Except, of course, this wasn’t really a good outcome. After about half a second of pride, basking in my victory, a wave of shame, self-loathing and reproach came rolling in. Me, a 36-year-old man, had just aggressively stolen all the blankets from a small child, leaving him entirely uncovered in the middle of the night.

Wyatt didn’t feel good about things either. I could hear the heavy breathing; the beginning of a sob begin to emerge.

“Hey buddy, I’m sorry!” I said, throwing most of the blanket back over him. “I shouldn’t have done that. I was just a bit frustrated, because I need some blanket, too. Neither one of us can have all of it.”

The breathing stopped. There was a pause.

“Okay, can we share the blanket?”

“Yes, buddy, we can absolutely share the blanket.”

“Okay, let’s share the blanket.”

And we did. And it was beautiful.

Until the morning, when I woke up to having not one goddamn inch of that blanket on top of me.

Wyatt, meanwhile, was still sleeping like an angel, the comforter piled over him in about seven layers.

Uncle Colin: zero. Wyatt: one.