peaceful
marxdarx dragged out there) out to the recycle area. This was the catalyst for me moving the bookshelf that was by the computer over to the other side of the room, and moving the little table from there to where the bookshelf was. Somehow, the combination of stuff being moved added up to a little more room here and there, though that'll probably get cluttered up fairly quickly.
The Little Fayoumis decided to play with the former couch cushions that have from time to time been integral parts of the Lunatic's bed structure. There was much jumping around, and some random Fayoumis/Lunatic bonding. He wants to have a bed in my room. Evidently my room is the coolest place in the world. (How did I get to be the cool aunt?) He was making faces/muscles at himself in the mirror, then adopted the cushions for playing Hot Lava outside. I rearranged the bed appropriately. He brought the cushions back in as I was moving the bookshelf. He stacked the cushions in a fortress to support his leaping up with the pulse rifle shaped cushion (we had a brief spelling lesson); I commented that this was probably more fun than the PlayStation (from which he is currently grounded).
He stacked the cushions up again in a fortification at the door, and waited to knock them over on some unsuspecting passing grown-up. No grown-ups obliged, so he knocked them over anyway.
Disaster struck in the form of a tackle from
marxdarx that wound up being poorly aimed; the Little Fayoumis wound up forehead-first on the only sharp/poky thing around: the blunt end of the nail that was trying to keep the LAN cat-5 from flying off the wall as it is wont to do. There were tears, and there was howling, and there was comforting, and there was immediate removal of the nail from the wall. The Little Fayoumis was set up on the big lower bunk in the west bedroom, and he was partially calmed down. I wandered in and told the story of FatherSir versus the waffle-headed hammer. That got giggles (at the expense of FatherSir's poor dented head), especially at the part where FatherSir yelled very loud, and then yelled things that even grown-ups should not say. And then I told other old stories: FatherSir and the chainsawed knee, Calico and the cornbread, Aurora at the Solstice party, and then I improvised on the story of the man, the dragon, and the lady, complete with avalanche. And then it was most definitely bedtime. The Little Fayoumis went up to his bunk, and almost started crying again, but I mentioned FatherSir's poor dented head, and the Little Fayoumis cackled and grinned (sadist) and settled in to sleep.
