The Pillow

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 piñata-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.