Dream Weaver

The time had finally arrived. The end of night feedings and changings. Endless rocking and Nick at Night TV. The cast of Good Times, Coach and Sanford & Son now personal friends. That’s when the nightmares began. Perhaps they’d always had them and been unable to express their terror due to limited or non-existent verbal skills. Being a long-time sufferer of vivid nightmares I could sympathize, and perhaps felt guilt they’d inherited this trait. I knew the distress an overactive imagination could bring, but also the joys. I could recalling my favorite childhood dream of flying. I’d hoped to end what I’d come to think of as my S.O.S. saga, otherwise known as, “In Search Of Sleep”. Reluctant to leave this earth with my tombstone engraved, “She finally got some rest”. I utilized and invented every method to procure a few more minutes of sleep. Nightlights, dream catchers, monster sprays and flashlights, only a few of the props I tried alongside verbal reassurances and nights spent sleeping in their bean bag chair; challenging to get out of on a good day, let alone the middle of the night. None worked for long. My presence and title of ‘mama’ deemed essential to ensure their nightly slumber, which resulted in none for me; morphing me into a daylight demon. “Mama!” I’d stumble to the hall and wait for the second call to confirm which bedroom to stagger into for fear of unintentionally waking the other. Yasmine huddled in the corner of her bed, eyes large as saucers as she stared at the space between her dresser and bookshelf. “How come she knows my name?” I eyed the vacant space. “Who?” “The girl. She comes every night, Grandma said she’s my angel.”

I was reluctant to give credibility to this new ‘entity’ for fear of validating the existence of gigantic tarantulas, killer walking flowers and the rest of the night creatures I’d previously dispelled. Although none of the others were on a first name basis. Sharing this with my husband brought forth his hopeful reply of “Maybe our house is on an old Indian burial ground.” His eyes lit up imagining living in an Amityville horror house or reenacting poltergeist movie scenes. I didn’t share this optimism. Knowing I lacked the courage to face down evil manifestations and attempts at fleeing would be feeble with my half-hearted exercise regime. Promising a sprint before being overwhelmed by a lack of air, thus sacrificing any lead from trailing apparitions unhindered by human deficiencies. Finally resolving I couldn’t clone myself, I shared myself. Seeking out two stuffed bears from my years gone by, I informed my girls they were armed with the very essence of their mama and could ward off any night malingerers. “No dreams.” Laken whispered into Pretty Bear’s stuffed ear. Her nightly mission assigned. “You don’t want to give up your dreams, honey.” I soothed. “Some may be scary, but without dreams you may never get to fly.”

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4 thoughts on “Dream Weaver

  1. Maureen

    Jody- it was really creepy as Yasmine described ‘her’ in detail a few times. Then one night she described a different ‘girl’ that I’d ‘dreamed’ about the night prior- creepy. 🙂


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