Roughing It

Sun-up. Clump, clump, clump, feet on stairs. Bedroom door sails open, smash, smacks wall. “MAMA! YOU DIDN’T SLEEP WITH ME!”

Caught. Deer in headlights. Sleeping alone.

The best thing about camping in the back yard, (besides the S’mores, a mosquito-chasing ravenous fire, reading books by lamplight in the tent, all three of us snuggling to sleep under stars, and just how unbelievably happy she was), is guiltily sneaking upstairs before dawn to slumber away, stretched out and alone for a few brief moments.

Well, before I was busted and had to explain my irrational behavior.


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