I ascend my mother.

Not metaphorically. Literally. I climb her like a weary mountain explorer scaling Everest, except I am wearing dinosaur pajamas and carrying a candy cane that drips with the sticky promise of chaos.

I settle into the sacred nook between her shoulder and her head — the throne of kings, the cradle of destiny. My legs stretch across her like I am claiming new land. Manifest Destiny, but make it toddler.

Mom lies beneath me, pale as a ghost who didn’t hydrate. Her eyes flutter open every few minutes like she’s trying to send a Morse code message: help me. But I, James the Unbothered, James the Comfortable, James the Cruncher of Candy Canes… I have a story to tell.

I take a mighty CRUNCH of my candy cane. The sound echoes through the living room like a battle cry.

“Mother,” I begin, patting her cheek with my peppermint‑coated hand, “today… was a day of trials.”

Pookie Cat slinks by, tail flicking with disdain, as if she’s the stage manager of this production and I’m going off script. Puppy Dog is tucked under my arm like a loyal soldier who has seen too much.

“First,” I say, “Puppy Dog fell from the bed. A tragedy. A fall from grace. A tumble so violent I had to scream for you, but you did not come. You were… occupied.”

Mom groans. I assume this is applause.

“And then,” I continue, “Jack touched my cereal. With his HAND. His bare, mortal hand. I was forced — FORCED — to raise my voice to the heavens.”

I shift my weight, making sure Mom cannot breathe too deeply. Comfort is important.

Pookie Cat hops onto the arm of the couch, staring at me like she’s waiting for her cue. I ignore her. This is my monologue.

“And THEN,” I say, taking another dramatic CRUNCH, “the dog LOOKED at me. With his EYES. I had no choice but to sprint across the kingdom to inform you. But alas… you were unavailable.”

Mom’s eyelids droop. She looks like she’s fading into the afterlife. I place my sticky hand on her forehead like I’m giving a blessing.

“You’re doing amazing, Mom.”

I lean back into my throne, candy cane dangling from my lips like a pirate’s dagger.

“Also,” I add, “I require mac and cheese later. The good orange one. Not the bad orange one. Not the OTHER bad orange one. The GOOD good orange one.”

Mom whispers something that might be “please stop,” but I take it as encouragement.

I take one final, thunderous CRUNCH.

“I shall remain here,” I declare, “because you are warm, and I am comfy, and that is the natural order of things.”

Pookie Cat blinks. Puppy Dog sags in resignation. Mom stares into the void.

And I — James the Mighty — continue my candy‑cane reign.