Hello and welcome to Musing Interruptus. Today, a tale as old as time. The monster under the bed. Talk about strange bedfellows. Be forewarned.

When I was born, my monster was born. Sleeping under my crib and then under my bed. When the space under the bed was too tight, my monster moved to the closet. We grew up together. When I learned to read, he demanded I read him bedtime stories, demanded cookies and dry cinnamon toast crunch cereal. My monster never understood I didn’t choose to be born at the same time he was. I couldn't break it to him. As I grew, he watched me learn and dream, waiting patiently for me after school, watching me play outside with my friends, sometimes alone. After all, he had come to be when I arrived home from the hospital. The tiny monster under my crib, pacing like a little velociraptor, practicing his  ...