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October 29, 2013

My wife will kill me if I interrupt her sleep cycle now or she might end up killing me after she reads this. 

Either way if this post happens to be my last... at least you know why.

I’m sitting in the dark as I write this with the glow of the screen as my only light source, unless I count the moon forcing its way through the closed blinds in our bedroom.  Allison is next to me, asleep, and I want to wake her to discuss the words I’m about to write and the sentences I’m about to form. 

After all, it should be her story to tell.

With every rise and fall of her chest I’m reminded of just how still the house feels during these hours; the hours when every room attempts to rest in effort to rebuild enough energy for the next day.  The hours when the reassuring sound of a balancing act between inhales and exhales can be heard through the baby monitor proving angels need sleep, too.  The hours where a three pound ball on the floor is somehow able to provide a strange level of comfort and security with the volume of  his canine snores.

It’s during these hours every night when I roll over and, like a knife in my back, feel the sharp pain of a dull object.  There’s something in the bed with us.  It should feel foreign yet it doesn’t.  It feels familiar.  It feels like a constant reminder that something is always lurking in the dark.

That something is named Brenda.

Brenda is a Cabbage Patch Kid.  She is naked and gross.  Surprisingly, she belongs to Allison not our toddler, Madison (little Miss Madison has friends of her own).  According to Allison, the hair is the attraction to Brenda or rather the entire breed of Cabbage Patch Kids.  She twirls the individual yarn-like strands between her fingers and claims it’s calming and relaxing and almost meditative.  Brenda moves through our house fluidly with the grace of a spider navigating the beautiful intricacies of her own web design.  She’s upstairs.  She’s downstairs.  She’s on the couch.  She’s on the coffee table.  She’s always in our bed.  Allison twirls herself to sleep, her version of an adult lullaby.
This habit predates the 13+ years we’ve been together.  Meet Hagee.

Hagee is also a Cabbage Patch Kid.  She wears an ill-fitting dress and is beyond disgusting.  She smells like dusty morning breath.  Unfortunately, Hagee is  bald.  Allison received her as a gift when she was 9 months old.  She slept with her every night and twirled her hair every spare moment until the last piece of brown yarn fell out.  Then she retired Hagee to a shelf where she sits currently.  Even though Brenda is the one haunting our house on a daily/nightly basis, Allison’s loyalty lies with Hagee.  Madison is not allowed to touch her.  Neither am I.  In the event of a fire, once all three of us and the dog are accounted for, Hagee is next on the make-sure-you-save list.
When Brenda finally meets her fate of premature hair loss followed by retirement, there will be Mary.

Should Madison, heaven forbid, ever inherit this terrifying habit (or Allison gets desperate)... Amelia.

They're starting to outnumber us.  I’m scared.


  1. The old dolls, and the new ones, freak me out....I hope you are alive after writing this ;).

    1. They freak me out, too. There's something about that smile, it feels like they're mocking me or they have a joke I'm not in on... don't tell Allison I said that.

  2. uhh...hi rando ya still alive? 0-0


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