Jlogged

Our poor mattress is so abused. Sometimes I dream that I’m lying on a sleeping bag stuffed with pine cones, hay, and jagged rocks. Then I wake up thinking I wish. It’s past it’s life expectancy by about two kids. Been peed, puked, and lactated on countless times.

Aaron and I have matching his/her dug outs we lay down in each night that are so deep if we cover our heads it looks like the bed is made up with no one in it. (This comes in handy when we want to hide from our kids, or the police unexpectedly raid our house.) It’s become surrealy bad. We are currently couch refugees until there is fundage for new tempurpedic memory foam digs.  And yes, memory foam probably causes seven kinds of cancer and irreversible brain damage but in my opinion it’s so very worth that risk.

When I sleep in that bed it throws my neck and back out. Which results in my morning crackhead routine. You, dear reader, may well wake up to the smell of bacon cooking, or perhaps an alarm clock, or even a rooster…I wake my family up with the sounds of my bones cracking and popping back in place. Think black cat fire crackers or a double barrel shot gun. They. Love. This…NOT.

Our bed is good for A.) the worlds largest laundry basket B.) a trampoline and C) kindling.

Caption this. Winner gets a prize. (You know you want a mystery prize!)

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