I remember weekend mornings of childhood. Running down the long hallway into my parent’s room, wriggling under the covers, stuffing my little body into a nest of snoozie warmth. Rolling over feeling my elbow connect. Then a barking shout, covers thrown off and immediately shuffled back into my own cold lonely room. Confused and sad, I never quite comprehended the why after experiencing the how of my eviction.

After the first half dozen or so sharp elbows and knees to the “Daddy” region, I wished I could travel back to that suburban household and warn the younger me thusly: “Hey. Kid. If you hit Daddy there, he’s gonna kick you out of bed. He’ll be pretty pissed off too.”

I learned quickly. At least my subconscious did. I usually don’t even wake up, but the moment I feel the added weight from a child landing on the mattress, my body rolls to its side leaving nothing exposed to the flailing limbs but butt and back. The occasional ear pull aside, I can escape virtually unscathed.

I guess I’m not so dumb after all. When I’m asleep anyway.
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