Bergen’s little army men are like non-lethal landmines scattered all around the floor in his room.
I step on one, I hear a faint snapping sound and then I freeze — afraid to move.
I gingerly take another step and then I feel the wrath of a fallen plastic soldier. Their tiny remains pierce the flesh of my tender foot.
I clasp my hand over my mouth so that my yelp does not wake my sleeping son.
I slowly raise my foot and stare through the faint light at my slightly blood-soaked sock.
It is absolute carnage.
I forget why I even went into his room in the first place.