Sweet Dreams

Baby Girl tearfully tip-toed into my room tonight with her precious Pinkie [baby blanket]. She had a bad dream.

My life has been plagued by dreams, both good and bad. Perhaps this goes back to a post I started (and abandoned) earlier this evening on imagination; perhaps it's something different, I don't know. But I live in awe - and fear - of my dreams.

My dreams are as real as they come, and they always have been. For as long as I can remember, after I ate my breakfast (once it was deemed "safe" to tell them by my mother) retellings of my night life have been met with remarks about their details and lengths. More times than not, if I remember anything of what I've dreamed, I remember it as clearly as day. I can tell you what I was wearing, describe the setting "to a t", replay conversations verbatim, and - the emotions. That's the most powerful of all. The emotions are raw. Pure. Intense. Consuming.

Perhaps this is why I have also have so many memories of tip-toeing into my parents bedroom at night.

My own little teary person would tenderly, slowly step into my parents room; stalling at the threshold to listen to their breathing (or snoring, whatever the case may be). My heart cried for them to please, please wake up. Most times they would continue sleeping soundly as I crept to Daddy's side of the bed. I can remember sitting on the spare pillow that lay by his bed. My, surely snotty, little nose sniffing as I sat silently near his sleeping body...staring. Intently. Willing him to wake up and save me from my sadness and fear.

I never spoke. I never said his name. I just...waited.

He always woke up. He always knew it was me. He always knew why I was there.

And he always let me climb into the middle of their bed, be comforted by their familiar scents and sounds, and safely fall back to sleep.

I remember the way my mother's speech sounded different in the night - with her mouthguard in. (We suffer from bruxism...add that to my list...) Their voices were quiet and broken by sleep. Their heavy heads never lifted far from their pillows. Daddy's hand softly rubbed my head, a habit he had perfected in my infancy. I welcomed those familiar things.

Now, as an adult, there are nights I would still do it all over again, were they near enough. My dreams continue to disturb me. Sadly, my Littlest Princess seems to be touched in this way, too. While I cannot change her dreams or take them away - and in many ways, I would never want to - I hope one day she will have memories like mine. Because, in the end, it's not the dreams I remember most, it's being saved.

**Author's Note: I considered providing examples of my dreams in this post, to help you understand. But, I decided that' s another post entirely...