Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts

Monday, September 7, 2009

Shook me all night long



Most nights these days my kids invent a hundred different ways to stall before bed. "I'm hungry." "I have to go to the bathroom." "I want the light on a little more." "I need to ask you a question." Etc, etc. until we end up having to just close the door in their little faces and wishing them goodnight.

Lately they've added a few fears to their expanding repertoire. Last week I had to go into the backyard and get rid of an imaginary rat for Maggie. Yesterday Oliver asked me to make sure there were no owls outside. Later, he called me back in to ask where the volcanoes were.

Then, tonight, Maggie called me into the room where she was sitting up in bed whimpering with fear. "Mom," she said, lips quivering. "I see a rock star outside. And I don't like rock stars."

For just a millisecond I got excited, thinking maybe, just maybe, this rather trying and exhausting day was going to end on a bright note and I would pull away the curtain and Angus Young would be standing in the backyard admiring our chickens in his little shorts and suspenders ensemble.

But no, it was only Venus, or the North Star or whatever, and I had to explain that it was just a regular star and not a rock star and there was nothing to be afraid of.

Oliver & Maggie doing a serious and avant garde "robot"

Monday, November 10, 2008

Dream Analysis



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.
Oliver: zzzzzzz.

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.


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