Do you ever...?

Today, we had a fire drill. Nothing out of the ordinary. A monthly routine at my school of dreams.

Unbeknownst to me, as I stood in the Florida sunshine amidst a grassy field of elementary school students at attention and their teachers stoically patroling, waiting for the "all clear", there was one child missing.

BigGirl.

A sea of nearly 1300 students and she was unaccounted for.

Luckily for me, (a) I was in the dark and never suspected for a second that her whereabouts were ever in question, and (b) she was never REALLY missing. There was just a misunderstanding about procedures for handling students in her weekly enrichment class. (Whew!)

However, afterwards, when I caught wind of her "disappearance", like any good mother, I thought for a minute (or two), those crazy paranoid thoughts that we all (I) think sometimes. Do you ever do that?

I imagined myself standing on that same soccer field, but this time, there was smoke. There were sirens. Then, a handful of people run to me with ominous looks on their faces. Their hands are on my back; they're supporting me with their strength as they explain that she's missing. I'm frantically begging for a cell phone as I remember my Blackberry is on my desk upstairs.

I call FireDaddy and cry as I, hysterically, demand him to, "Get in that firetruck and get over her and FIND OUR BABY AND GET HER OUT!!!"

Then, I snap out of it.

This isn't the first time my crazy, random fears have manifested into ultra-realistic daymares.

One minute, I'm innocently driving over the bridge, completely at ease behind the wheel. The next, I'm watching my car launch off the side of the bridge and careening into the river below. I can see the water rising outside of my car. My windows are darkening with the dirty, polluted water. The smell of oil and gas fills my diminishing air supply as I breathe. I reach for my handy-dandy car escape tool that My Mama gifted to everyone one Christmas. I fumble to cut my seatbelt and - God forbid my children are in the car - cut their belts as well. I struggle to break the glass and keep my head free from panic. The water is cold and my girls are heavy in my arms.

But, I shake it off. My car is dry and calm and the Jason Mraz is singing one of my favorites. My eyes once again focus on the road ahead of me as I feel the tension leave my shoulders and jaw loosen.

The superstitious side of me worries about thinking these horrors. If I think them, will they come true? The supernatural part of me worries they are premonitions. Will these be like those dreams of mine that later come true? Though they seem purely fiction at the time, will they one day be alive? Will I one day recognize that old, familiar feeling filling me, and think to myself, "So this is how it happens..." Even now, by letting these hallucinations leave my mind and take a presence on the internet, I worry that I will open a door and permit them into my life.

Do you ever think these things?

(P.S. I told you I was neurotic.)

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/wwworks/ / CC BY 2.0

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...