On some nights around Casa de Ambulance Driver, particularly those when the thunder is booming, or when she’s had a bad dream…
… I will be awakened by the sound of a 7-year-old with a limp toddling into my bedroom, or perhaps by the scraping of a small footstool being dragged across the floor, and presently a little blonde head will burrow under the covers and an arm will be flung across my chest.
“Can I sleep with you, Daddy?” she’ll ask, already knowing the answer.
“I suppose so,” I’ll yawn. “Scoot on in here and snuggle down.”
“Uh uh,” she’ll grin sleepily. “No way.”
“No way?” I’ll ask indignantly. “And may I ask why not?”
“Because we’re up snugglers in this family.”
You’d think after seven years, I’d learn.
