They never liked to stay under my pillow in high school; those feisty dolls were always jumping backwards under the bed, or spreading out over my full-sized mattress like they owned the place. I don't know what happened to them when I moved to college. Apparently when I decided to leave town, they packed up too.
A few weeks ago, I went to visit one of my college BFFs in Tulsa for her baby shower, and I stopped at my parents' house on the way up. My mom presented me with a set of worry dolls and, assuming they were the same ones I'd had in high school, I asked where she'd found them — I hadn't seen them in years! And she told me that she got them in Honduras during a recent cruise. But they were exactly as I remembered them, down to the beautiful dress designs and hand-stitched faces.
(I'm sure the stitch lines are intended to be their eyes, but I like to think of them as eyebrows, to give them unique facial expressions.)
It's no longer enough to hear that good things are coming. That something is going to happen soon. Soon is not enough anymore. Soon is no longer comforting.
So for the past week, I've placed two worry dolls under my pillow at night.
One for Matt's job search. And one for my little business.
And they've stayed there all night. Maybe this time they'll do their jobs. And perhaps be better behaved.