When I was a wee one, my mother made me this pale yellow patchwork pillow. Rectangular in shape with a white border, each patch had a different pattern. That pillow was my everything. I treated that pillow like it held a million gummy worms and I was gatekeeper the the sugary goodness.
I was Linus and I had no shame about it whatsoever.
Over the years, the fabric thinned. Holes developed and the filling matted. Mommy (yes, Mommy) would give the pillow new life. She would add more fabric to cover the worn areas and added replaced the filling.
I would be in love all over again.
With kindergarten fast approaching, Mommy was on a one-woman campaign to break up my love affair. She would lovingly tell me that I was a big girl and big girls didn’t carry pillows around.
A whole day without my beloved pillow? Blasphemy!!!
I was hellbent on going to school with that comforting softness. One time, I snuck the pillow into my backpack so I could sleep with it at nap time. Slept like a baby with my red/blue mat, pillow, and blanket.
Alas, all good things must come to an end.
I eventually outgrew the pillow. I like to think that the comfort that the pillow provided would be the blueprint for all things comfort-related in my life. That sense of calm is beauty in a sea of chaos.