We recently moved into a town house where one bedroom is on the third floor and the other is in the basement, or what the Hilton would optimistically dub The Garden Level.
There was no way I was letting my first born sleep in a cave two floor below me, so he got the top floor, or what Darling Husband bitterly refers to as The Penthouse.
My BFF stopped by the other day for a tour. As we descended into the subterranean realm, she said, "So, this is where the magic happens, eh?"
Guess who now wants nothing to do with his room because he is convinced that Criss Angel lives in my closet and when we put him to bed in the comforts of his suite, The Greatest Mindfreak Show on Earth is raging on without him?
Abracadabra! Go the ^%#$ to sleep!!
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