The red and white gingham checkered pillow. I loved that thing. I leaned on it in my stroller, slept on it, and also did this other weird thing with it. I didn't just suck my thumb as a little girl, but sucked my thumb and also managed to shove my index finger in my mouth. This "contraption" meant there was a fair amount of drooling going on, and the drool naturally landed on the pillow. Which made it wet. And unfortunately, it doesn't end there. If it was a warm summer night, I would rub my cheek on the wet spot of the pillow to "cool" down.
Dad and I, and my pillow!
I took it everywhere, so needless to say it became increasingly difficult for my mother to keep it fresh and clean. I can't remember which had to go first, my pillow or my ability to suck my thumb (and index finger,) but I think it all happened around the same time. I say "my ability to suck my thumb" because a thumb isn't something your mother can throw away, like a pacifier, when society thinks you've become too old for it.
My mother had to get creative. She tried putting salt on my thumb, which didn't work at all. Like any Swedish salty licorice loving kid, I didn't mind the salty taste, and, it was gone after a few seconds, after which I continued to happily enjoy my thumb. I think there was some bribery too, but I probably just promised to be a big girl and then, after the light was turned off, filled up my mouth with my exquisite thumb and index finger, and proceeded to drool on my pillow.
Finally my mother sowed these little cloth bags. They were like mittens except for the whole hand went in, and the fabric was quite festive and colorful, if I remember correctly. The idea was that I'd put my hand in them, and there was a tie around the wrist so once I was in, I couldn't take them off. Nor could I get to my thumb. I don't know how she got the idea, but I must say, points for creativity. I'm sure people are now imagining little Marika in a straight jacket, but they were really quite cute and inventive. And eventually, after shoving my whole "mitten" covered hand into my mouth a few times, I gave up.
Ulrik and I, and my pillow!
All great things must come to an end, and so did my time with my favorite pillow. I had enjoyed it for many years so perhaps it was time. I don't remember how it all went down, but I remember asking for it, and being told it was old and had been thrown out. Knowing myself back then, I probably screamed, cried, and mourned it for some time, but adult Marika will never blame my mother for it.
You see, my mother grew up in a home where nothing was ever thrown out, regardless of its expiration date. To me, grandma Celina and grandpa Norbert's house was a treasure trove. It was (and actually still is) a place where you find all sorts of interesting gadgets and items; old newspapers and chocolate from the nineties, mixed in with feathery boas and salad tongs. Visiting was fascinating as it gave me the chance to go treasure hunting on a daily basis, but I imagine living in that sort of environment must not have been all that great.
So when it came time for my mother to have her own family and create her own home, she did things the opposite way, like so many people do when they have their own children. She was a happy, fun Mom who danced a lot, found creative ways to get her daughter to stop sucking her thumb. And she threw things out when they got gross. Nothing wrong with that, unless I'm now supposed to rebel against it and become a hoarder.
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