A few months ago, as Todd and I were trying valiantly to stuff the wee, willow-like appendages of our baby girl into her jammies' sleeves, he pondered aloud (while wiping sweat from his brow), "Damn! What do people do who have regular-sized kids?"
"There supposed to be that way," I explained. "You know, to keep them from catching fire."
He lifted his eyebrows and said, "What?!"
"It's some kind of fire hazard to have loose-fitting pajamas."
"How, exactly, would she catch on fire in the first place?" he queried, quite legitimately. "It's not like we've got a lit Christmas tree and a small forest of halogen lights arranged around her bed."
"I dunno. Just... well, if there, um..." All I could conjure were images of Banana in a house dress and rollers chain smoking as she drifted off, surrounded by hapless teddy bears.
"That's just how it's supposed to be."
We giggled on and off for the next half-hour.
I know there is some legitimate concern here. I just can't quite see what it is. But please, PLEASE, please don't regale me with tales of tots on fire. There are some nightmares I really don't need to know about. Please.