I have a stuffed purple lamb sitting on my dresser. I call it“Lambie.” It was a high school graduation gift from my grandparents. They had remembered the original Lambie, a white musical lamb, that I once had when I was five. I had religiously wound it up prior to falling asleep so that I could listen to the song Lullaby. Eventually, Lambie became tattered beyond repair and quit playing its soothing music, and I remembered crying the day I had to throw it away. Grandma promised me a new Lambie, and she never forgot her promise.
Where motherhood and writing collide
