Last night Oliver woke up yelling his head off at about 1:30. I stumbled down the stairs to his room, sending Woody skittering across the floor with those terribly noisy claws of his. What I found was a mostly-still-asleep two-year-old babbling like a lunatic, hair all sticky-upy.
Me: Shhh (rubbing his cheek) Shh.
Oliver: Guy! Man!
Me: Shhh. Go back to sleep.
Oliver: Choo-choo train man come!
Me: It's just a dream. Shh.
My son's first bad dream. This may be mean, but being able to soothe my kid during a nightmare gives me immense pleasure. I donned my capable-mom suit and kicked that Choo-choo Train Man back to the hell from which he rose.
None of my new found skills seemed to help in my own personal dreamland. As I drifted off I joined the Mister on the beach just as he was fishing my liver out of the surf at Ocean Beach. We knew it was mine because of the serial number, you see.
Me: Can we put it back in?
Mister: No. Look at it (he holds up a large, gray jellyfish-looking thing). It's been out too long.
Me: (realizing I'm going to die). Darn.
I've never really gotten the hang of dream analysis, but this much is clear: Oliver is cute and I am whacked thirty ways from Sunday.