Occasionally, my husband has meetings in Manhattan that require an overnight stay. I’m not going to go on and on about how this makes me jealous. I won’t call him a jerk for callously stating his night in a mid-town hotel just “isn’t all that much fun” on his Facebook status. I won’t share the details about how I read that insensitive statement moments after my finger inadvertently slipped into a poo-filled diaper.

I just won’t.

But good Lord…I miss overnights in New York hotels.

I miss the days when I was comped rooms at the W or stayed at the Essex House just because I didn’t feel like hopping the train back to Westchester. Life was tough and those were the perks of the job.

I miss the silence.

I miss the Heavenly Bed.

Back when Westin first introduced the Heavenly Beds, Starwood Employees were able to buy the linens, down comforters, pillows…hell, we could buy the whole damn bed if we wanted to. I bought the comforter and the pillows. And they are heavenly, thank you.

courtesy of Westin at Home


So heavenly that three children were conceived under the downy cloak of heaven.

This morning I was fitfully sleeping beneath my Heavenly Bed comforter and thinking that it ain’t so heavenly anymore.

Gwen had been coughing at regular intervals for two hours and by 6:30 a.m., my right eye had begun to twitch. My head was pounding. The cat made her grand morning entrance, demanding I get up and fill her bowl so she could resume another day of compulsive eating.

I tiptoed into the hallway, fed the cat and peeked into Gwennie’s room. Her hair was fanned out on her pillow and her eyes were squished shut in a pathetic attempt to sleep.

“Psssst…Gwennie,” I whispered, trying to avoid rousing the wee beastie (Kate).

Gwen popped up, smiled and held her arms out for a hug. I picked her up and carried her to my Heavenly Bed, kissing her forehead along the way.

She hacked in my face three times. A light spray of germ-filled mucosa dappled my skin and probably infected me, but I didn’t care. I was too tired.

We snuggled into my bed and watched the news together. Gwennie sucked on a mini-melt cough strip and was uncharacteristically silent.

Except for the cough.

I stroked her hair and kissed her head. She hugged my arm and held my hand. Then, during a commercial break she turned her little face up to mine and spoke. Her voice was not unlike what I imagine Marge Simpson might sound like if she was five.

“Mommy, I don’t believe I can make it to school today. I feel like shit,” she rasped.

And so, my middle child – the one who never curses – was lovingly tucked beneath my Heavenly comforter with her head resting on two Heavenly pillows to watch Tinkerbell for the 346th time.

After I fluffed her pillows, I moved toward the door to get Joe ready for school. Something made me pause in the doorway to look back at her.

Suddenly, that bed looked heavenly again.