London Does Not sleep in a cage!

It was a calm evening when the missionaries came over for a visit. London, my sweet, bubbly daughter, had been entertaining herself all afternoon building an elaborate fort in the corner of the room. She’d turned my treadmill into the base, draped a blanket over it, and added pillows and stuffed animals to make it cozy. To her, it was a masterpiece. To the untrained eye? It looked like a cage for a very spoiled hamster.

The missionaries were sitting on the couch, chatting politely, when London popped her head out of the fort and announced, “This is where I sleep. In my cage.”

Silence. The kind of silence where you can hear the hum of the refrigerator in the next room. The missionaries’ smiles froze, and they glanced at me, trying very hard to be polite but clearly questioning my parenting choices.

“Oh, no, no,” I said quickly, waving my hands. “She doesn’t actually sleep in there. It’s just a fort!”

London, ever the dramatic one, added, “No, I like it in my cage. It’s cozy.”

I could see the concern growing in their eyes, so I turned to London and said, “Sweetie, tell them where you really sleep.”

She grinned, pointed at the fort, and said, “In my cage.”

At that point, I gave up and just said, “You know what? Let me show you her room.” I led them upstairs to prove she had a perfectly normal bed and that my treadmill wasn’t doubling as a toddler holding cell.

To this day, I wonder how many prayers they said for us that night.