“I had two dreams, Mommy!” he yells at my face, in my darkened room, at the crack of dawn.
“One good dream, and one bad dream…” he begins.
I don’t remember all the details. I wish I did. It was early, and he was talking so quickly. He and I were racing in race cars, and there was a huge dinosaur that ate lots of plants.
That was a few weeks ago.
He’s come to me since, explaining the details of the stories that happen while he sleeps. I just stare at him, watch the tip of his nose bob up and down as his cherubic little lips struggle to compensate for the speed of his mind.
I could listen to him all day, talking about what he sees and does while he’s asleep. I’m awed by the fact that he remembers events that occurred at least a year ago, and even more so that he can tell me of his adventures during the night.
Every morning, when he (and both his siblings) cuddle up to us and ultimately fidget to a point that they’re excused from the room, I secretly hope he’ll roll over and tell me about angry mountain goats, unending rainbows, or marshmallow clouds.
I can’t get enough.
And I don’t think I have been able to truly reconcile with the fact that I actually grew his tiny brain, in his tiny head, in a sac, in my stomach, that has itself sprouted neural pathways sufficient to dream.
It’s a milestone. To me. I’m not sure the parenting guides note it as such (I stopped reading that drivel before he was two), but it’s definitely a milestone.
As right-brained as I am, I always get a little burst of joy when one of my kids makes up a song, or a poem. Or they interpret music through their bodies. Or when their insides come spilling out through a piece of art.
That’s the stuff I live for. The words, the harmonies, the expression.
Just to hear him tell me he had a dream was exhilarating. His ability to articulate the content is an amazing bonus.
As such, I’m looking forward to hearing him tell me what he sees in paintings, when he looks up at the sky, and when he notices a pretty girl for the first time.
I reckon it will be equally sweet.
This is one of the tiny little nuggets of unadulterated goodness in my life. A Ferrero Rocher, so to speak. A dark chocolate sea salt caramel. And I’m going to savor it. For the next year or so.
Until my twins start telling me about theirs.