My children are trying to kill me.
When I sat on the miniature torture device that looks like a toy metal airplane but feels like a colonoscopy, I chalked it up to childish forgetfulness. I did pause to wonder why a child of mine would be playing airplane in my bed, but why do my children do anything?
You see my point.
When I stepped on a glossy I Spy book discarded near my bed and wrenched my back as I slid precariously across the floor and launched myself onto my mattress, I congratulated myself on having a soft surface to land on and made a mental note to ban all books from my bedroom.
But last night...last night the true agenda of my spawn became frighteningly clear.
As you know, I hauled myself upstairs at an insanely late hour. My hubby, who does not hear voices in his head and therefore feels no compulsion to stay awake for hours turning those voices into a literary masterpiece, was already asleep. I, being a respectful wife and not wishing for a repeat of the Earthquake Incident in which I, as a newlywed, learned that the consequences of startling a heavy sleeper awake is a backhand across the face (YES, I startled him by flinging myself on top of him and NO he did not mean to backhand me...), did not turn the light on in our bedroom.
Instead, I carefully picked my way across the floor to my side of the bed, feeling around with my toes for stray books, metal toys, or my dog before committing myself to each step.
The path was clear.
I sat on my bed, gingerly and with great care, in case another surprise awaited me there.
At this point, I made a fatal error in calculation: I relaxed my guard.
My hubby winds the blankets all around himself and tangles everything up on the bed so when I come to bed it is with much tugging (Oh, alright, I rip the blankets out of his hands...but he once backhanded me, remember? Save your sympathy.) and rearranging of blankets to get the bed into the state of organization that makes my little heart happy.
I tugged. I yanked. I realized the top blanket was tangled up at the end of the bed. I bent forward at the waist to tug it forward and impaled my eye on the point of a large K-nex sculpture placed inexplicably at the foot of my bed by my children.
Ouch doesn't quite cover it.
When questioned this morning, my children pointed to Starshine as the creator of the sculpture (which has seven - count them...SEVEN - pointy ends sticking out of it) and when I inquired as to his reasons for placing it on my bed at night, he looked innocent and said, "I made a game. It was your turn."
Nevermind that Starshine is the master of the non sequitur. I got the message. The game is Unlikely Injuries For $500 Alex and apparently I'm the only one playing.