"My moon fell on my head."

Stuck to the underside of Max's cool bed are several glow-in-the-dark stars and a glow-in-the-dark moon.  The sticky tape used to adhere these objects to the bed is failing and every once in a while an object falls onto Max's mattress below.  At one point I idly thought to myself, "Gee, I hope nothing falls on him in the middle of the night, or we're in for a scream-fest."

Tonight, shortly after bedtime, Greta went to investigate some suspicious sounds coming from Max's bedroom -- sounds suggesting little hands attempting to open a child-locked door in the dark, a feat that is difficult for Max but not impossible.  Greta and I are quite strict with enforcing bedtime.  When something like this happens, Max gets about five seconds to explain himself before he is curtly shooed back into bed.  Often his explanations don't make sense, or he just cries.  Tonight he was calm, collected, and ready with an explanation:

"My moon fell on my head."

Pretty good excuse to be out of bed, I guess.