Curse You and Your Long Arms!

He wailed as I steamrolled across him on his bed. My twelve year-old son had the prize is his grasp, held as far away from me as possible. He's getting stronger every day, but not strong enough to hold on to the book we're both in the middle of reading. See, it's bedtime. And he needs his sleep. I did what any caring mother would do. Any loving mother would tackle her son, squish him to goo and pry the precious book from his desperate fingers. Then she would wade across the room with him clinging stubbornly to her ankles, and climb up the stairs on her hands and knees as the hem of her jeans rip. She would emerge at the top of the stairs, book held aloft with the wild glee of triumph in her eyes. It's for his own good, it is after all, bedtime. And it's a dang good book.