The Stuff That Dreams Aren't Made Of

I love my bed.

I mean, really love it.  I will sleep in other places if I have to, but I'm most comfortable snuggled up on my own comfy mattress, under my own comfy covers.  Maybe I'm a bed snob, but at least I'm a comfortable one. (I suppose now would be an appropriate time to admit that my in-laws actually bought a memory foam mattress for their guest bed after I mentioned to them that the ultra-firm one already on there wasn't all that comfortable - hey, they asked!  I still feel kind of bad about that, but I do enjoy sleeping in that bed more now.)

My children, though...well, I don't get them.

They actually like sleeping on the floor.

Back before we bought all the new shelving for the girls' room, Lexi had so much junk stored on her bed that she couldn't fit.  Rather than clean it off, she slept on the floor for two weeks.

Ellie...well, to be honest, she can sleep anywhere.

And tonight Vicki announced that she was going to sleep in the "hiding place", which the girls created by hanging towels down from Lexi's loft bed.  Upon this announcement, the other girls clamored for a chance to sleep in there, too.

Now, I get the desire to have a fort-type place.  I totally do.  My friend and I used to turn my canopy into a covered wagon, back in our "Little House on the Prairie" phase.  It was still my bed, though.  But my kids have this all worked out: from now until forever, Monday night is Ellie's night to sleep in there, Tuesday is Vicki's, and Wednesday is Lexi's.  They're calling it "the comfy place".

I say it doesn't matter what you call it.  It's still the floor.

They say they don't care, they're sleeping there anyway.

My children are strange.