The click of the bedside lamp switching off stirred me from sleep.

“Wait,” I murmured.

There was a rustling of sheets as Mr. Burt started to lie down beside me.  “What?”

“Don’t turn the light off yet.”

“Why?”

I considered his question for a moment as I came out of the haze of sleep and realized I’d been asleep for some time while my husband read.  Why did I want Mr. Burt to leave the light on when I was trying to sleep?

Suddenly, I giggled.  “I was cleaning up poopies,” I told him, picturing myself scooping little turds off the floor, “and I needed the light so I could see to finish.”  It occurred to me that I should clarify:  “In my dream, I mean.”

Mr. Burt cracked up.  And proceeded to laugh for a few minutes, while I drifted back to sleep, wondering what on earth had inspired a dream about cleaning up poopies.  And what kind of poopies they were.

And why I kept referring to them as poopies.