Sunday, August 16, 2009

A Story In Which the Clothes Hamper Isn't Mentioned Once

The move has been made. Not the entire Jubilant household. We've done enough of that for three, count 'em - three, lifetimes.

No, I am talking about moving Whirling Dervish into The Cruise Director's room. All three chickadees came to us and made the request. I was quite surprised because, in the past, both Whirling Dervish and The Affectionate One have stated, in no uncertain terms, that they're afraid to sleep in a room by themselves.

This time, The Affectionate One reassured us that she would be OK in a room without her younger brother. I do believe her words were something to the affect, "Now I can have a room that doesn't stink like boys."

Adorable, isn't she?

Which reminds me: I walked into the boys' room early into this little adventure and there was a distinct smell to the room. In just two days the room had acquired the smell of little boys. You know the smell I am talking about. Dirty socks, sweaty heads, dirty socks and purloined granola bar wrappers. And did I mention dirty socks? I just know one night frogs will jump out of pockets and plastic guns with orange tips will suddenly explode with those annoying laser sounds when I go in to check on the boys.

Contrary to her most emphatic reassurances, The Affectionate One has shown up snuggled closely to me each and every night of her non-stinky room experience. She claims to have bad dreams. Every night.

I also know her to have quite a comprehensive story-telling ability. And she ain't afraid to use it. I'm just sayin'.

So, The Calm One and I are torn as to where we draw the line. Is she really having bad dreams? Or is she taking advantage? Something is waking her up at o' dark thirty. I don't really have a problem with her climbing into our bed, but The Calm One has more definitive reservations - and beliefs about what's really going on with The Affectionate One.

In order to test his theory, maybe The Calm One should strew his dirty socks all over our bedroom and - Oh, wait . . .


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