On the Defensive

My four-year old grandson

turned a full one hundred

eighty degrees in the

small bed we shared

last night and

his tiny lower limbs

became lethal weapons.

 

Afraid to wake him, I

covered his legs with a

pillow, and his stuffed

dog, Shep, served as a

protective rampart between

my face and his feet.

 

But is was an

uneasy truce and I

slept fitfully all night

wondering when the

barricade might fall.

Notes: 

Four year olds wiggle a lot when they sleep.