My kitty has a tendency to urp a lot when my daughter returns from her dad's. I'm not sure what this is about. He loves her, though he loves me more because I'm here more. He was hunkered down on my bed for much of the day, hidden behind a tall stack of clean clothes I'd dumped out of the laundry basket so that I could use the basket for the Girl's dirty clothes (really, Laundry has become Doom today). He looked so content.
I should have known.
Didn't discover the puke until I was about to turn off my light (at close to 1 a.m.).
I have been adding layers to my bed as winter drags on, so he just got the surface covers.
But, dammit, they included my old afghan that was a gift from my sister to my parents that somehow ended up with me. And my angel blanket, a gift a friend gave me the day my daughter was born.
Eh. That's life.
Once the afghan and angel blanket are dry, I'll toss them back on my bed, and kitty will curl himself up against my calves, somehow gaining weight as he falls asleep.
My Girl is awake, of course. She's on break; she's 16; she has drawings that she's been wanting to tackle for months and chats to finish with friends that could last months. I imagine she'll be awake long after I finally fade out.
She is my gift. She is the best gift. The question of gifts, most memorable gifts, emotional or otherwise, has no meaning unless you mean my daughter.
I know, I know, this is mushy. But it's truth. She is my reason, my sense, my sanity, my laughter, my joy, my breath. Every year. The same gift. The best gift.
And the dryer has buzzed, so I'm finished with this post and off to bed now.