I bought an electric blanket for my mother’s visit last week. The guest room is chilly, she’s 77 years old, and wise daughters do NOT separate their mothers from their electric blankets in the winter. And I’m a wise daughter, right?
She loved it, and when she left, I moved it down to our bed. We like sleeping in a cool room, but I hate getting into a cold bed. And while my husband is the world’s best heater, he doesn’t like sharing his heat directly with my frigid feet.
So. Friday night. I turned the heater down, but stayed up playing a stupid game on my phone. I couldn’t let the computer trounce me that badly, now, could I? (If you like to be stupid too, go check out “Farkle.”)
Chilly in the living room, shivering in the bedroom. Turn the blanket on ten. Teeth, face, prayers. Climb in and . . . sigh. Luxurious warmth.
The danger came later.
I didn’t leave it on high, I turned it down to one and went to sleep.
I didn’t get up and leave it cooking in a scrunched bundle like I did as a teenager.
I just lay in lovely comfort and didn’t get up. I thought about things to do. I thought about how Mom was feeling after long flights. I thought about the fact that 29 years ago that morning, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.
I drifted off to sleep again.
And when I woke up, the room was still chilly, I was still toasty warm, and I still didn’t get up. I didn’t reach for the phone to read the news or check the weather or play another game of Farkle, but . . . let’s just say that my thoughts can wander far and wide before they come home. And before I finally crawl out of bed.
The moral of the story? If you also choose to revel in warmth, read the precautions on the label like any good consumer. And then put your alarm clock across the room.