Tri-State Neighbor: South Dakota Farm Newspaper

There is a monster under my bed. There’s another one in my closet. I had not noticed them, but my 3-year-old grandson spotted them.

I love having Tavian come to my house for overnights. It’s my chance to spoil him beyond reason. We watch Spongebob, eat cookies and stay up as late as 10 p.m. When we first started our overnights, I put a sleeping bag on the floor next to my bed, thinking my grandson would snuggle into it and go right to sleep. The sleeping bag lasted about 20 seconds.

“I wanna sleep wif you,” said a small voice, as two blue eyes peered over the edge of the bed.

What’s a grandma going to say? Tavian flopped into my bed and immediately went to sleep. I dozed off listening happily to the soft snoring of my favorite (and only) grandson. About midnight, my favorite (and only) grandson started dreaming … and actively participating in the dream. He ended up perpendicular on the bed with his feet thumping into the area around my kidneys. This continued and continued and continued.

Eventually, I took my pillow and a blanket and hiked downstairs to the couch for the rest of the night. Tavian, bright-eyed and well-rested, found me on the couch when he got up with the sun, looking for breakfast.

That became our standard pattern: Fall asleep next to Grandma, kick Grandma out of the big bed, wake up Grandma on the couch at dawn. A couple of weeks ago, though, our well-established pattern hit a snag.

On Saturday night, when we turned off Spongebob and headed for bed, Tavian started to cry. He wanted his Mommy and he wanted her to come get him, right now! I used my soothing grandma voice, but made no headway. We called his mommy. She used her soothing mommy voice, but made no headway.

“Shall I come get him?” she asked me. “Let me try one more thing,” I told her. I took a stack of favorite books into bed with us and promised to read as long as he wanted. “Until my Mommy comes?”

“Sure, honey.” I read seven books before his little eyelids stayed shut. Then, I picked up my pillow and blanket and went downstairs.

Tavian was fine in the morning, at dawn. He was tight-lipped about what had happened the night before. The next overnight followed the same pattern - fun and frolic until bedtime, then he started to cry.

“Honey,” I asked, snuggling him close, “Don’t you want to stay at my house? You don’t have to. I’ll call Mom.”

“Grandma,” he said, using the voice of a very big boy delivering very bad news to his grandmother, “You have a monster under your bed. And in your closet.”

“Oh, that can’t be,” I promised him. “When I bought this house I specifically asked for a monster-free house.” “Well, they’re here.” (Guess I should have reviewed the disclosure statement more closely.)

I reached deep into my grandma bag of tricks. “I do have some monster spray that we could try.”

“Monster spray?”

Sure. I went into my linen closet and pulled out Glade Powder Fresh air freshener.

“Here it is,” I said and read to him, “Monster spray. Eliminates monsters on the spot. Guaranteed.”

“Can I spray it?” he asked. “No. It’s too strong. Only adults can touch it.”

I sprayed it liberally in the closet, under the bed, and in one especially dark corner of the bedroom. “There,” I said. “That should take good care of it!”

“That should take good care of it,” he repeated, already tucking himself into bed.

Tomorrow, I shop for a monster-free sleeping bag.