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.
“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.