Salt in the Wound

A little bit ago, after a bitter inner struggle, I caved in and authorized the use of food storage boxes as nightstands in our bedroom and my son's bedroom. Sad, I know. As someone who appreciates great design, this was (and still is) kind of buggy.
I came to this point, because a.) we do not have any more room under beds, b.) I refuse to store our food in the garage, and c.) we do not own nightstands. I do not like them, but they serve a purpose.

And I figured I could lower my standards just a little. Maybe I'm being just a little ridiculous afterall. It's not like the rest of our house is anything great. No one will ever see them. It's better than nothing. I'd rather have food if I'm starving. Etc., etc., etc.

After all that inner turmoil to arrive at this point, you can imagine the distress the following conversation with my son caused, while organizing his room:

Me: "Get me your books off your nightstand."

My Son: "Nightstand? What nightstand?"

Me: "The nightstand next to your bed."

My Son: "Where?"

Me: "The boxes next to your bed."

My Son: "Those aren't a nightstand. Those are boxes. I call them dummy boxes."

Me: [to myself] "So do I...."

Nothing like a child's perspective to bash any delusion that I might have in fooling somebody into thinking that a stack of boxes are furniture. Talk about selective imagination. [sigh...]