At night, when I check on them, for maybe the fifteenth time, to make sure they are covered up and you know breathing. I am apt to find a wide assortment of books amongst the covers as well.
How one could sleep amidst such a collection of paper cuts waiting to happen and eyes waiting to be poked out by corners (I’m a mom sorry) I don’t know. It certainly doesn’t seem comfortable does it?
And yet night after night the collection grows, no matter that every morning they are instructed to put them back on shelves, the next morning will find an entirely new pile of books among the covers.
Some, tried and true classics, some not, and some original works, scribbled under the cover (literally) of darkness each evening. Pencils? Do you know how many pencils I find in their beds? A lot.
Frankly, I don’t know where they get it.
*The Book of Love-Nataly Dawn