At least It’s not a horse’s head?

A few nights back, I rolled over in bed to find that my partner’s hip had splintered into several hard, individual pieces. The sleep deprivation has us both aging rapidly, but this came as a bit of a shock. I pulled out the splinters and put them on the floor next to the bed. Because I was tired. And I fell asleep.

In the light of day, it turned out that these weren’t pieces of my partner’s hip at all but Legos.

The next day I found pieces clattering around in my slipper. Luckily my foot wasn’t in there yet, so I didn’t worry about it.

And then I found a trash truck parked under my covers, at the foot of my bed, filled to the brim with Crayola Twistables.

Why my side of the bed–which is farthest from the door–strikes my children as the optimal place to bury treasure escapes me. Maybe they are offerings. Maybe I’ll let myself believe that.

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