Words and Pictures :: Tucked Into Bed

Tucked into bed is the writing prompt this week. Go here to read more.

I sleep in the same bed I slept in as a child. It seems kind of strange sometimes. I've been falling asleep the same way for the last 44 years - right arm slipped under my pillow, right hand resting at the same spot on the wrought iron frame headboard. The iron feels cool when I wrap my hand around it each night, just like it has every night since I was seven.

The biggest difference is that now, my feet touch the footboard. And maybe I'm not so much into rainbows and unicorn sheets anymore.

My dad got my bed when he owned the moving company. It must easily weigh over 5oo pounds. I remember when he brought it home and set it up in the first bedroom that I didn't have to share with my sister. He and my mother painted the room the perfect shade of pink for my seven year old taste. My mother refinished the dresser and vanity from her childhood room for me in shades of pink and mottled green. My father painted my name* in big bubble shaped letters that arched over the wall and followed the curve of my bed.

It was as close to "princess-dom" as I've ever come.

Lots of families have inside jokes, secret languages and rituals that are puzzling to the uninitiated. Our was no different, especially when it came to getting tucked into bed. After teeth were brushed, faces were washed and school clothes were laid out for morning, my sister and I would climb into our beds. Each parent would visit us seperately. My mother always came in first.

"Don't you give me poppers!" I would command in my biggest, most authoritative voice and then excitedly try to dodge her good night kisses. Wiggling and giggling, trying to hide beneath the sheets and covers, my mother would eventually pin me down and kiss my cheek. When she finally managed to catch me I would giggle and scream, "You did! You did! You did give me poppers!!!"

Dad came in next and he followed the script that I had laid out for us years earlier. As he walked into my bedroom he would pretend to whistle. He would pucker up and blow, but the only sound that come out was the sound of his breath. I would follow suit - mimicking his actions with no sound. Then he would pucker up again, but this time he would make a single, monotone whistle. I would do the same. There was no talking, just the sound of a little bird mimicking her daddy bird. He would give me a good night kiss and tell me to sleep well.

Feeling safe, loved and comforted by silly little rituals I would turn onto my right side, sliding my arm underneath my pillow and feeling the cool iron frame warming to my touch - slip off to dream.

* My dad painted another secret word into the first letter A in Tanya. You had to look hard to find it. For the life of me, I can't remember what the word was. . .and I don't have any pictures of it. Does anyone who reads this remember?