The Case for Lasik

"Okay love," I whispered, easing the rocking chair to a slow stop, "it's time to get back in bed."

"No, Mama. No, Mama." Penelope tightened her arms around my waist. "Don't leave me."

"Sweetheart," I said, keeping my voice slow and quiet, "we've been rocking for a long time, but it's the middle of the night. You have to go back to sleep."

"I can't sleep, Mama. Not while the bugs are coming out of the light."

"What? What are you talking about?" I sat up quickly, picturing a nest of cockroaches teeming into the room, their exoskeletons clacking together in the darkness, wings shimmering, a steady flood. My shoulder cracked when I straightened my spine. I squinted at the place where the nightlight cut the darkness. Without my glasses, the light wavered. My heart beat faster. The room came into slow focus.

"No, baby," I said. "There aren't any bugs here. Everything's fine."

"There are bugs, Mama! They're coming out of the light."

"Honey," I started, but just then Chris came in to see what was the matter. "Let's ask Daddy. He has good eyes."

"Okay."

"Are there any bugs coming out of the light?"

"Huh," he said. He ran a hand through his hair. He didn't look like he'd been rubbing his eyes. "What? Oh. Yeah, there's a gnat."

He squashed it.

Then Penelope climbed into bed and slept for the rest of the night.