When we were in college, I gave James a lot of grief about his pillow. It was so bad. I called it his Sock Pillow.
Imagine a pillowcase with a sock in it. Flat. Kind of lumpy. Perfectly sized if you’re a Barbie. He’d ball up that bag of parakeet feathers, rest his head, and declare it perfect. We spent our entire relationship debating the merits of his Sock Pillow, even bringing little Jacob into it.
Earlier this week, I’m putting the new flannel sheets on the boys’ beds that Nonna gave them for Christmas. The sheets are unbelievably soft and cozy and appear to be keeping the boys asleep until noon. As I’m doing the pillowcases on Nate’s bed, I come across a sad excuse for a pillow. A Sock Pillow that has mysteriously escaped my notice.
I hold it up to Jacob, “Whatdoyouthink? Time for this one to go in the trash, yeah?”
“What? No! Yellow pillows are the best.”
I’m gagging as I write those words. Why do pillows turn yellow? Don’t answer that.
I swear I can hear James enjoying the win.