A little while ago, my parents were sitting in their room talking and I decided to join them- I plopped myself on their bed, in between them. I looked kind of funny because there wasn't much room for me, and my legs dangled off the side of their bed. We spent about an hour or so talking about ... well... life. Even though all we did was hold a coversation, I felt very nostalgic.

There's something very special about my parents' bed. I don't know how to explain it. Every time I got sick as a little girl, my mom would care for me in her own room. She would place me in her bed, keep me warm and comfortable, rub my back, give me some kind of homemade remedy. I think that's why I always recovered so quickly! And that's how I knew her - as my nurturer, as my comforter, my nurse...

In kindergarten, I got home earlier than the rest of my siblings- so my mom would feed me, we would watch Days of Our Lives together (that's how she learned English!) and she would put me down for a nap (in her bed, of course!) and I would wake up when my dad got home.... my big, strong father, whose presence commanded the attention of everyone in the house. He was exhausted from a long day of working two shifts. And that's how I knew him- as our provider and the authority of the house.

I never slept with them both in the bed at the same time - that would just be weird - but I know that I am always welcome to relax in there, to laugh with them, or to bury my head in their blanket if I need a good cry.


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COUNTDOWN: 21 days