When I put you guys to bed your little, tiny nightlights seem so inefficient; little pinpricks of light in all of that scary darkness. Every time I close your doors I want to rush back in and put another nightlight in every outlet.
How is it, then, that when I stumble in to your rooms at 3:30 in the morning to answer your desperate calls, that those nightlights are like freaking beacons? They look like mini lighthouses shining right in your faces. Suddenly I’m trying to cover them up; moving furniture to block the light, stacking up totems of stuffed animals, strategically placing hard-backed books between you and the nightlights.
I know scientists will tell me that this has to do with the pupillary light reflex (thank you, Encyclopedia Britannica), my pupils taking time to dilate or contract to adjust to the amount of light available. But I think that’s hooey. I think these stupid nightlights think it’s funny…