Today I got the scare of my life.
The Captain has just bought himself a new guitar, so when it arrived this morning, he got busy checking it out, while Firstborn made use of the giant box it came in. Before long, I was in front of the bathroom mirror counting grey hairs and I heard Firstborn say, to no one in particular, "Where's Doggie? I want him in my coffin with me."
I came rushing out of the bathroom to find my child laying funeral-style in his new box. I stood there aghast, half of my brain trying to compute the cost of a child psychiatrist, and the other half trying to recall some sign in Firstborn's recent history that he was suicidal, homicidal or otherwise demented. Finally, I found my voice.
"Buddy, get out of that box."
"Why? Look, it's a coffin! I even have a pillow!"
"Okay, you can't pretend to lay in a coffin. It's MORBID!"
"Deathly and depressing. Now get out of there! Quit pretending to be dead!"
"I'm not dead, I just sleep here."
And it was at this point that I saw the first-grade printing on one of the box flaps. "Warning: Do Not Touch. Vampire Coffin!"
So that's why he kept trying to bite my neck. Whew! Dodged a bullet there!