Bedtime.

It is far, far past bedtime. Especially for one we are trying to wean from afternoon naps before she starts afternoon kindergarten in two weeks.

"Mama," she says in a small voice, "I can't sleep because I keep thinking about zombies."

"What?" I say, "Zombies? Where did you see them?"

"On tv," she says, "they eat brains and make other people zombies too."

"Oh," I say, trying to think of a solution, "first of all, that was not great tv for you to be watching. It sounds way too scary. Also, zombies aren't real. They're scary make believe."

"But I can't stop thinking about them."

Remembering past success with logic - monsters? Not in Ottawa - Monsters have big feet, too big to buy shoes and boots, and you sure can't live in Ottawa without shoes and boots - maybe somewhere warmer - polar bears and Elephants? Well, when they knock on the door, we just don't let them in. Also, they can't really fit through the door anyhow. Witches? We don't let them in either, but because you don't want to offend a witch, I offer them tea and cookies on the deck - I start to think about how I can make her safe.

"Well, honey, number one, zombies aren't real. But if they were, did you see them walking around? I mean, number two, zombies are stupid."

"And number three," I say, counting them out on my hand, "their fingers don't work all that well. All of our doors are locked, so the zombies, if they were real, wouldn't be able to open the doors."

"oh!" she says, inspired, "and they're really old and break really easily!"

"Right!" I say. "Number four, they break really easily."

"But what about them coming in the windows?" She asks. (Stupid tv show. What the hell was the care provider doing while this was on?)

"Well, honey," I say, "remember they're stupid. And break easily, and their fingers don't work. So they really can't climb up anything, and if they tried to get in the windows down here, they'd just break up into zombie bits. If they were real, which they aren't."

"AAAAND," I say, moving the party back upstairs, "They're really slow. So if they were real, which they're not, they can't get you inside the house because they're stupid, and slow, and break up really easy and their fingers don't work."

"But what's the most important reason," I ask?

"They're not real." She agrees and climbs back into bed.

"Exactly."

Unless, of course, zombies are real, and you took a day off this week to drive one home from dental surgery.

And although she wasn't stupid, she was kinda slow, and her fingers didn't work all that well, and if I had dropped her while I walked her crazy zombie laughing self to the car, I bet you she would have broken into pieces.