My children are a constant source of delight to me.
Last night, I put my son to bed without his pillow! To understand the drama of this occasion, you must imagine an attachment on the level of Romeo/Juliet, Lancelot/Guinevere, Jane/Mr. Rochester, Elizabeth/Mr. Darcy... Bella/Edward *cough*. The separation anxiety is usually severe.
On this occasion, some fluke happened in the cosmos, and my son did not notice his missing pillow. As soon as he was asleep, Tim and I sought the missing object, frantically whispering new hiding place ideas to each other as we searched. Our house is not that big. Surprisingly, there are a lot of places to hide. We didn't find it and I dreaded the next morning, when we would have to break the news of the missing pillow.
Sometime during the night, our son crawled in bed with us. I wondered if he had woken up and realized his security was missing.
He didn't mention it this morning. I shot up a few prayers asking God to please let us find his pillow before he noticed it. I didn't dare ask my son if he remembered where he'd left it. Pictures of the resulting disaster filled my mind.
I began to clean up the archeological dig that is my living room. On my hands and knees, I began sorting toys into piles where they needed to go. A quick look under the couch, and THERE IT WAS! In the words of Carroll, Oh Frabjous Day, Callooh, Callay! He Chortled In His Joy!
My son heard my gasp of excitement and ran into the room. "My PIWOW! I WUV my PIWOW!" He hugged the thing - the limp, dirty, overly-hugged, overly-loved, frayed, falling-apart pillow.
For some reason, and I couldn't begin to explain myself, my tear glands started working.
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