Bad Dreams
Day before yesterday, 4yo Drake woke at 2:30 am crying.
“I dreamed bugs were all over my feet, Mom!” he wailed.
I checked the bed, and assured him that they were in his dream, not in real life. “And Daisy and Duckie are ducks (referring to some of his loveys), and they eat bugs, so they’ll protect you.”
“BUT THEY’RE NOT REAL, MOM!”
I pause, think. “But neither are the bugs in your dream, honey.”
He pauses, thinks. “Oh, OK.” Turns over and shuts his eyes.
This morning, 3am, 2yo Guppy started to yell. I stumbled into his room.
“Drake’s being really mean to me, Mom!”
I, figuring this need not be dignified with an answer, placated him with a drink of water, and returned to my bed. What, it’s not enough that I have to endure their fights all day, but I have to deal with bad-dream versions, too? Oy. And poor Guppy doesn’t even get a break from his younger-sibling torment in his dreams.