Last week, ignoring Younger’s pleas, I cleaned his room, which included a lot of boxing and trashing. And despite his trepidation, he found the changes somewhat tolerable.

Until bedtime.

“Aaaaah,” he cried. “My bed has been moved. Mom! My bed has been moved.”

I stuck my head into his bedroom. “Maybe three inches, Younger.”

“My bed’s been moved.”

The next day, I asked, rather sarcastically, “Did you manage to sleep despite the moving of your bed?”

“Mom, I had to get up and move it back,” he admitted.


“Well, I kept waking up and the dresser was in the wrong place and I kept thinking I was falling out of bed.”

I have never in my forty-three years used the position of my furniture to gauge whether I was lying supine on my mattress or tumbling towards my floor.

I mean, you know, the thud or the lack thereof was always my first clue.

Then he added, “You also stole my third pillow.”

So I returned the accidentally filched pillow. Because he, apparently, needs a pillow for his head and a pillow for each hand.

I’ve done my best the last sixteen years, but obviously…

That boy just ain’t right.





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