I’m sitting
on the chaise longue, leaning against a pillow, scanning my phone for something
wholly unimportant.
“Mama, I put
something under your pillow!”
“Oh, yeah,” I
nod absentmindedly. “Okay, baby.”
“You can
look at it, okay?”
“Okay, baby.
Mama’s looking for something on her phone right now.” Doing, clearly, something
that I’ve since forgotten.
“It’s a
surprise!”
Then she
left it. I was clearly “busy” and for a six-year old, my daughter demonstrates
an astonishing amount of patience. And discretion. In other words, she can keep
her own council, which at the moment offers a welcome respite thought I’m
certain I will regret that quality in the future.
I was tired.
The previous day, we had had a party. I had cooked all day. Hong Kong-style soy
sauce chao mian, a Vietnamese baked curry with quail eggs, some focaccia, a
salmon mousse I piped onto toasts and topped with arugula pesto, mini banana
bread with pecans and chocolate chips, a mango and strawberry salad, and
panzanella. My daughter had had a performance at her school and I invited one
of her teachers and her husband over to ask her about homeschooling for the year.
Some other friends came over, too.
I was beat. Throughout
Saturday, all I could think of was to lie down. My husband had taken my older
daughter to a birthday party on Saturday to give me a little respite while the
Bustle Butt napped. Of course, she woke the moment they left. So I didn’t get
that respite.
When they
returned, I made an executive decision. He could deal with them both for a bit.
“Honey, I’m
going to go rest for a while upstairs, okay?”
I haven’t
slept in my bed for a few days because I’ve been keeping the nightmares at bay
for my daughter. By sleeping with her.
Ear plugs,
or as my daughter used to call them, “ear clubs,” are essential for my sleep. Everyone
snores and I’m really noise-sensitive. Sensitive to everything, come to that. So
I keep a pair everywhere, including under my pillow.
As I reached
under, I noticed that the pillow seemed a bit raised. I have a flat memory-foam
pillow which helps with my occipital neuralgia, a result of the three
whiplashes I had as a child. I lifted the pillow.
I saw what
she meant. My pillow. Not the chaise
pillow.
Underneath was a card that said “I love you, Mama” with a dollar bill in
it, a piggy bank she had decorated that was filled with more money, two pieces
of candy from her stash acquired at the birthday party piƱata-grab, and a
sunflower. We had given her a bunch of sunflowers after her performance the
previous day.
Where does
this child come from? She must be an angel. To me, anyway. As should all
children to their parents. But this one. She simply floors me.