This photograph could have easily been one of my favorite moments caught on camera…
…sans crying child and the massive mystery bruise that appeared on the crying child’s arm two days ago. There’s the pajama-clad daughter diligently reading Dracula on her own free will and cuddling with Polly the Cat. It’s freakin’ cute! I mean, except with that moody grimace on her face because I was exercising my duty as her mother and telling her it was time for goodnight hugs and kisses. I swear, the worst thing I’ve done to this kid in days is tell her to get out of my bed and get into her own bed. Hell, she could have even taken the cat with her if she wanted but all she could think about at that moment was, “But I didn’t get any hot chocolate tonight!”
See what happens when you conspire with the extra-toed freakcat and hijack my bed? You get no hot chocolate, that’s what!
Seriously, this bed is…holy wow, I have no words for this bed. It’s not even the bed, really. It’s the electric heated mattress pad beneath my cozy, navy blue corduroy covers. It came with a magical knobby thingy that displays a digital number according to the level of warmth I choose to snuggle into each night. Level 1 is eh…it’s okay. Level 10 is…way too hot. Level 5 is so awesome because it could be 65 degrees in my house and I’m in bed in shorts and I don’t even have to wear my socks tonight!!
For years, I have been folding my body into unnatural positions in order to fit my teeny, tiny self onto a teeny, tiny square of a heating pad. You know, that little splack of cloth and cords that really only fits on your lap because it’s so small. Now imagine ten of those all over your bed. I bought this heated mattress pad after it was recommended to me by two friends. One even compared it to “slipping into a cozy oven” or something along those lines but much more poetic.
I was sold. Despite my anti-Walmite tendencies, I swallowed my pride and rushed to the nearest Walmart with every intention of buying an electric blanket. But when the electric blanket costs $89 and the heated mattress pad of cozy oven-like awesomeness costs $49…well, there’s no question.
I want to sleep in this cozy oven every night. (An ironic note: I finished Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar while relaxing in this little cozy oven of mine. Yes, a bad joke, but it’s the honest-to-goodness truth. Good read, by the way.)
In the end tonight, everybody got what they wanted. Well, kinda. And not exactly everyone. Elle snuck some fudge out of the pantry (a win for her), I got my bed back (a win for me), and the cat got shoved into the kitty condo because she cannot be trusted to stay out unsupervised in the evenings or we could wake up to find the Christmas tree ablaze, all the plants knocked off the shelves, and hairballs scattered throughout the house in a sort of protest for getting kicked out of the cozy oven of a bed.
Time to turn on Level 5…aaaaaaah!