While in the bitter midst of his second time out, my youngest decided to tear all the sheets off his bed.
Walking into his room, I saw the mess, and my chest caved. The heaviness. Oh, the heaviness.
Sometimes, there's so much to carry. So much to clean.
I should have made him make his own bed. Or, even better, left him to sleep on a bare, cold mattress. That would be all Love-and-Logic-y.
Unmake your own bed, now sleep in it.
Instead, I chose new sheets. The soft, dove-brown flannel ones, adorned with pirates. I smoothed the loose creases, fluffing his pillow, and folding over the top sheet and comforter.
I thought of my mother, and how she did the same for me. Soft, yellow sheets, draped like a benediction. My favorite doll nestled close by, waiting for my midnight embraces.
And so, I made his bed. I wanted him to know that even when he's angry, he will still have a soft, warm pirate-sheeted place to fall.