Four is a really great number. I have nothing against the number four.
It is a good number if you are, say, dividing a dollar into quarters. That happens to work out very well.
I would also enjoy eating four cookies. Yum!
I also have approximately four friends around whom I am not troll-like, although I am trying to raise that number. Ok, I have more friends than that, but they have to pull me out of my troll-cave in order for me to interact, but the more I hang around people like me, the more I see that maybe that’s not so unusual.
Also, I think those people on Sesame Street did a few little songs about the number four or something. They seemed to like it as well.
I like 4 o’clock in the afternoon, because that’s when I get to leave work.
There are many things I like about the number four.
But here’s the thing. At no time, EVER, never-ever-not-at-any-time should there be FOUR people in my bed! Especially when one of them is not my husband. Seriously people, I woke up this morning, with three kids plus myself in my bed, and can you even begin to guess who had the least amount of space? Yep, that would be me.
I was clinging precariously to the edge of the mattress by the shards of my fingernails, hoping not to plunge face-first into the carpet from my previously comfortable nest.
And damn those Sleep Number people for not bothering to tell me that there is no magic number on the face of the planet that will EVER make a mattress comfortable if there are a kazillion people lying on it. They should have just told me, “Hey lady, if you have kids, you may as well buy the concrete slab version, because that would totally be just as comfortable.”