About the Magic of Mothers’ Beds…

I have a bed.
Nothing particularly special about it compared to all the beds I’ve ever seen in my life.
Gray. With wooden legs.
True, it’s quite big.
Always “made up” with plain bedding.
No teddy bears, no rainbows, no extraordinary fluffiness, no other details that catch the eye.
Just a bed.

But very often—especially in the evenings—I feel the urge to examine my bed closely:
Did someone smear the sides with honey? Maybe someone hid some treats in a “secret spot”?
Or perhaps someone attached a little lure to tempt the kids?

Because in the evenings, a question settles into our home:
“Mom, can I still get into your bed?”
“Can’t?”
“Just five minutes.”
Glancing at the clock, I shake my head—already all limits have been used.
“And four?”
I smile at the negotiating skills expressed through even rounder, wider eyes.
“Well, three, and we shake on it”—understanding that I’ve been defeated, the little one climbs into my bed, shouting beforehand to her negotiation ally: “Daminykai, she said yes!”

Three minutes never really exist.
I would even doubt her ability to count the exact “three minutes” on the clock.
Moreover, her birthday gift—a very necessary little clock—has gone missing. “God knows where” from its necessity.
The agreed-upon three minutes
usually turn into a relocation of movable property into her own little bed, carried by strong Daddy arms.
Without waking up.
Because falling asleep in Mommy’s magical bed is magical too.
“Without waking.”

And then… I remember my own childhood.
I see my soft little bed decorated with squirrels, in a room shared with my sister.
Surrounded by plush toys and pillows, ready to guard our sleep.
And I remember… my mother’s bed, ordinary in every way.
And that crazy desire to slip into it for just a few minutes before falling asleep.
I remember the time negotiations.
Which I always won.
I remember those blissful moments drifting off, accompanied by Mommy’s nimble fingers knitting nearby, the thread whispering softly.

I don’t remember if Dad ever carried me.
But probably not necessary, because my sleep was magical.
Because in the morning I would wake up in my little squirrel bed, surrounded by plush guardians of sleep.

Then I realized that there’s no need to look for honey, magnets, or wrapped candies, or to fuss over the evening “just five more minutes” drama.
In ordinary, unremarkable mothers’ beds lives
something as simple as two pennies of love.
A basic, post-adventure calm that is so necessary.
And cozy, quiet conversations that prepare you for dreams.

Just extended.
Longer than the agreed time.
And accidentally “turned into” sweet dreams.

V.