Remember in the last post I hinted my daughter didn’t want to have anything to do with me? That her idea of communication was an eye roll, shoulder shrug or the TGoE? (That’s Teenage Gasp of Exasperation.) Well, as we all know, things change. Especially with teenagers. Sometime in the wee small hours I was awakened to:
One thing about being a parent, there’s an expiration date on frustration. It’s at two in the morning when the kid screams your name.
“I had a nightmare. Zombies were after me. Can I sleep with you?”
She hasn’t asked that since before her first training bra; last year I think. I muttered “Muh huh.” and stumbled back to bed, with her in tow. One of the last things she did before diving safely under the covers with me and two dogs was block the bedroom door with a box fan. I grinned to myself thinking “We’re safe now. Because as we all know, zombies can’t climb over box fans.”