Undercover

I type slowly, quietly, in fear of rousing the one in the dark nearby. His breathing is steady and heavy. When I was younger, I raised the ire of my parents by reading comic books by flashlight after bedtime.

But there is a far more serious danger lurking here. . .

the Mafinator, aka Soggy Bottom Boy

And so I type, laptop hidden under the covers to avoid awakening the littlest Sprittle in the crib nearby. Each time he stirs, I freeze like a rabbit, heart racing. Will the softly glowing monitor leak through the fabric and bounce blinding light off my bifocals and into his darkened corner?



Or, perhaps the better question would be, why on earth am I hiding under the covers to write a blog post? Have I fallen into the depths of net addiction depravity? Is it really THAT important to send an email while visiting my precious Sprittles in their new home?

All I know is a few days ago I received an "anonymous" call inviting me to "come visit and sleep in my new bunny room and take us to the pool."

And so, after 3 weeks of living on the road, I repacked my suitcase (and swimsuit) and headed for a bunny room in North Carolina. Any grandmother not willing to respond in like manner to such a phone call is not worth her weight in fruity tic tacs.

Perhaps I am in good company. Perhaps all over the world tonight there are other grandmothers, purses laden with candy for the grandkids, typing furtively under the covers.

Or maybe it's just me. Alone, insane and delusional from too many miles in too short a time.

Would someone please call 911?