We have an old twin-sized futon—the ultra-basic variety with the unfinished pine base that folds, awkwardly, into a chair. Though it has been useful over the years, it doesn’t get a lot of love. In return, it has become increasingly lumpy and shabby looking. Sarah and I generally ignore it, keeping it around for rare times when we are brimming with house guests. The kids, however, see it as a multi-purpose device: trampoline, hurdle, and the floor, wall, or roof for their many ephemeral fort designs.

Said futon recently sprung a leak, spewing forth tiny bits of foam (the foam core is surrounded by a nimbus of smaller chunks, ergo the lumpiness). Sarah applied a duct tape bandage, but the kids regularly defeat this measure with a single good leap.

This morning, Sarah and I found the futon blocking the basement hallway with a spray of foam guts on the carpet. We asked the kids to clean up the mess, and reminded them that the poor futon is off limits until we come up with a hardier solution. Some time later, I returned to the basement and found that Griffin had filled an entire trash can with foam bits, vastly more than what we had seen on the carpet before. With sinking heart, I inquired as to what was going on. Griffin proudly said that he was making sure that no more would leak out again, at which point he reached into the growing wound and extracted another armload of foam.

As I groaned at the plight of the poor, eviscerated futon, Maggie squealed, “More, Griffin, MORE!”