When I was a toddler, I loved nuzzling into cozy little spaces. My sister and I made makeshift blanket forts all the time, and I used to crawl under coffee tables with huge blankets to nap. I was the master of Hide-and-Go-Seek, and my cousins often gave up searching because I was very quiet and never wanted to come out of my peaceful hiding spot. One of my favorite cozy places was between the footrest and couch cushion in our sofa’s recliner, but once when I was three, I got stuck in it. My mom tried to pull me out like always and couldn’t figure out how I had wedged myself in there so far. She started panicking and called my dad home from work. He rushed home and threw open the door; I just stood there smiling at him, the upper half of my body sticking out of the couch. He also tried to pry me out but to no avail. I wasn’t scared because both my parents were there, and I was warm and snug in my home. My dad then spent the next couple hours taking apart the recliner bolt by bolt. My mom thought we were going to have to call the fire department. I don’t remember this as a scarring or terrifying event; I do remember being amused by all the fuss. I even got ice cream for dinner, and when the rocky road was gone, I got to play with my dad's tools and help him put the couch back together.
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