Most kids have loveys. Tired-looking things that they have loved into threadbare parcels of comfort. Perhaps a beloved blanket – a gift from some ancient aunt the child doesn’t even know but who thought enough to gift the one thing every child needs. Perhaps a bear, or bunny, or boppi – whatever that is. Perhaps even a woman’s slip (as was the case with my cousin’s youngest).
No matter what the object’s origin, size, state of disrepair – or smell for that matter – it is an all-powerful thing. It soothes when nothing else will. If it is lost, all is lost, and you better get on your shoes, dial that cell phone, hop in that car and trace those last steps or there will be no peace.
Though a tad old for one I now have a lovey. Just say I am in touch with my inner child. I have always wanted to be more in touch with that part of me.
I found it in the spa section of some gift shop and couldn’t bring myself to gift it to anyone but me. It is one of those stuffed-microwave-beanbag-things for lying across your aching shoulders at the end of the day; but I rarely use it for that. Instead I take it to bed with me all winter long.
It is luscious and soft on the outside. Filled with little pellets, or rice, or beans; it has substance, weight. Like an anchor. It used to have a heavenly lavender smell but that has faded now with all the heating and snuggling. I am known to heat it two times in one night before I finally settle in.
In bed it lies on my chest, or across my frigid feet, or in the crook of my arm and reminds me to pause, breathe, and relax. It warms the sheets around me, creating a cocoon to burrow down into and escape.
Escape from the clamor of kids calling for this or that. From phone calls from Dad asking for some object he can’t locate (though I know it is there). From the dirty laundry, the cooking and cleaning, the mail.
In my cocoon, anchored and warm I can feel myself come back to me. And it is comforting. As it should be when you are holding your lovey.