to my daughter

You didn't ask me to warm your blanket in the dryer. You always ask me after to warm your blanket after I rub your back. So I can tuck you in warm (and hope you fall asleep before it cools). I was surprised. You never asked.

I thought you were asleep. It had been quiet for quite some time. Your dad and I were almost getting into bed ourselves (I believe his hand was raised to throw a sock into the hamper), when the door opened.

I heard a flat, official voice in the doorway pronounce:

"Who will do the honours?"

I turned and saw your solemn expression, your blanket draped across your outstretched forearms, like a chambermaid.


I fell backwards onto the bed in giggles. I thought you'd laugh with me. I thought "I've come so far" - I can laugh and not be offended by your tactless, superior demands. Your flat, autistic tone. What a wonderfully whimsical mom...

To a child who can't stand being laughed at. Your ran to your room in tears. Your dad consoled you and "did the honours." He warmed the blanket (longer than I would have) and explained that I was laughing because I enjoyed you. But I should have known you would be hurt.

I'm sorry. I forgot.

But I am still laughing on the inside.