One thing I did manage to remember yesterday when I was at Ikea? Scrub-brushes. Even Genghis Kahn couldn’t stop me from stocking up on them. I’m sure you’re familiar with the type. Rubber? Colorful? A popular point-of-purchase add-on? If you don’t know them they’re great. Good to look at, hardy, cheap. And I love the way they stick to the counter. A suction cup is so often an empty promise, wouldn’t you agree? It hardly ever works the way it says it will. But the ones on these scrub-brushes are an exception. They suck. With a vengeance. I like to clap mine onto the inner side of the sink so it’s jutting into space horizontally. It’s like a happy little flagpole, the bristles its national banner.

The other reason we have to keep these in stock? MJ sleeps with one. Religiously. Oh, she likes to cuddle with all kinds of weird stuff at night; at last count her crib contained a digital clock, five jackets, two sweaters, thirty or so stuffed animals, six blankets, miscellaneous hair clips, and a sheet of stickers. Her scrub-brush, though, is probably her favorite. I have no idea how the tradition started, but it’s been going on for months now. Many is the night that we go in to check on her and find her cuddling beatifically with it, fingers wrapped around the stem, the bristles tickling her chin.

Recently, however, we had a mishap. Her brush — accidentally — got used in the kitchen. Not by me! Or maybe it was. Anyway, there was no chance it would be returning to her bed. A long talk about bacteria ensued. There was quite a scene.

But now she is content again, with a shiny new blue brush for her bed. We’re all set , too, with extras for the sink. All is joy, all is calm. Or all is bizarre. Depends on how you see it. (I suggest the latter.) Just moments ago, in fact, Myra-Jean called me into her bedroom, where I’d recently left her to nap, and uttered words to me I suspect few parents ever hear:

“Mama, I want Easter bunny, I want Wolfie, and I want scrub-brush.”

Having supplied her with all three she dutifully fell asleep. Ah, my eccentric child. May you always have what makes you feel safe at night.

Unless I need it to clean a frying pan.