No, it's really hideous. Try harder to visualize. Did I mention the yarn is 100% synthetic?
It's not that I have a real sentimental attachment to the thing. It's just that it's indestructible. And it's somewhat odd to realize that in my reality tunnel, there is no world before crib blanket. In the beginning was the blanket... and the blanket will likely be here long after I'm gone.
I do have a sentimental attachment to the patchwork quilt my mother made me, which I haven't had for quite so long. The hand-embroidery is almost worn out in many places. The cloth is threadbare and inexpertly patched. One of my puppies chewed the corner of it. That item is in storage in Connecticut; when I go home I'll reclaim it, and maybe use it as a tapestry. It's knotted rather than quilted, and far too fragile to use as a blanket, anymore. But the red and blue and white gingham crazy-squares are pretty, in a much-loved sort of way. I miss that quilt a lot. It kind of symbolized home to me.
In that same box in storage are two stained, ancient, hand-embroidered linen table runners created by my Hutzul great-grandmother, the one I usually misidentify as a Transylvanian because it's easier than trying to explain exactly where the Hutzul come from. I never met her, but I also have an ankh made of her gold teeth for me by my father. Say what you will about the crazy Ukrainians; their embroidery is as beautiful as their Easter eggs.
I also have two hand-made afghans that were wedding gifts, one a present from mirandamai, the other from Mrs. Connely. I expect I'll have them for the rest of my life. They're both black-and-primary-colors. My personality seems to be pretty well established, now, and beyond the gingham squares or melon-colored zigzags.
There's something about a handmade blanket. Especially when it's the oldest thing you own.