We had dinner with Darcy and Donnie last Sunday and she reminded me of this. It is one of the funniest memories of have about raising my kids.
In the middle of the night, many moons ago, I was awakened by a 12-year-old Darcy who was digging frantically through the blankets on my bed. “What are you doing?” I asked. “I’m looking for my finger,” she answered. “Looking for what?” I asked, “My finger, I can’t find it.” “What are you talking about?” I responded, slowly realizing she was sleepwalking. Suddenly, with that haughty attitude exhibited so well by prepubescent girls everywhere, Darcy shoved her hand in my face and said, “My finger? See?!?” “Your fingers are fine,” I answered, “go back to bed.” At that point, she glared at me, jerked the covers back and snarled, “Nevermind! I’ll look for it later!”, spun around, stomped back to her room, crawled into her bed. The next morning I asked her about it but she didn’t, and still doesn’t, remember anything about it, except for what I told her. We never did find that finger.
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