Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

Luke is what we call an "active dreamer". It's never a mystery what he's dreaming about (loudly). Last night his dreams were full of two things he regularly deals with: sweets and injustice.

Last night, he started crying around 11:30. I went in to check on him and he was still asleep. He started shouting, "I want more. I want more. I want more chocolate." I rubbed his back until he calmed down and moved into a different stage of sleep, then went back to bed.

At 4:30, I sprang from my bed in response to some ear-piercing screams coming from his room. Based on the severity of his sceaming, I had expected to find that he had fallen out of bed...onto a pile of glass shards...with mutant bats flying through the window and attacking him.

He was still in bed, screaming intensely, "I WANT MORE. I WANT MORE. GIVE ME MORE. I WANT MORE 'NILLA WAFERS." Oh @#&*, not this again, I thought. The shouting went on for about thirty seconds before I could get a word in edgewise. I jostled him a little bit and started explaining to him that he was having a dream. He woke up and looked at me and demanded that I spit the 'Nilla Wafers out.

"I don't have any. You're having a dream," was what I was trying to say, but he thrust his fist into my mouth at that point. He wiggled his fingers around, sticking them down my throat. His sharp little talons (which I JUST cut to nubbins on Saturday) scratched my throat as I pulled them out. This all happened very quickly. Thankfully, my saintly mother rescued me from the situation and sent me back to bed.

As I woke up this morning (to stickers being put on my face by the same perpetrator), I felt like I had been intubated.

I have no funny punchline about the situation. And really, I'm only recording this story so that someday, when Luke is building me a mother-in-law suite in his pool house, I can have documented reasons why he should stop selling me short on formica countertops. I want the granite countertops, you son of a gun. I DESERVE THE GRANITE.