As I lay here in bed, sick, I hear all these noises around me, the loudest and most distracting coming from the apartment above me.
All I can picture based on the noises coming from the apartment above me is a two year old. The two year old has made use of her new found gross motor skills and has wobbled her way to the top of the sofa, on top of the cushions, with a handful of marbles, and has, with evil glee, rained them across her kingdom.
Our baby has now got a hold of her mini scooter, and she now scoots over the house as fast as her pudgy legs can take her to the kitchen. What happens in the next seventeen seconds is unclear at the moment, but there seems to be a situation in which the baby’s hair, fries, and parents are on fire.
The baby seems to have managed to salvage the fries and is complaining about the slight dampness with a half hour of bawling, asking for the manager, and the half singed parents tell her that the fries are homemade, there is no manager and please let them go to the hospital they are dying.
Our baby is merciful, so she lets them go, but two thumps tell us a different story. The marbles have taken down two more. I am nex-
Or maybe it’s just my ear infection. Who knows.