Nighttime Weirdness
BabyGirl woke up sobbing sometime last night. I think the crying might be because she has a cold and was feeling awful because the sobs sounded like the I-Feel-Lousy variety(I asked her where it hurt and didn't get an answer*). It took a some time spent sitting on her bedroom floor, rocking her and talking quietly to get her settled down--so I had some time to sort out why I was so disoriented, aside from the fact that I have a cold, too: I'd also had one of my weirdo nightmares.
I sometimes have the usual sort of nightmare, where I'm running away from horrible things and can't get away, blah blah blah, but I more typically have the sort of nightmare that suggests a really twisted subconscious, to wit: I dreamed I was at my mother's wake and a very drunk Frank Sinatra (!) approached me to tell me about how he dated my mom and wasn't she the greatest, except that his conversation became increasingly inappropriate for a wake and even more inappropriate for the subject's daughter, for cryin out loud. And I found that I couldn't look him in the eye because I was staring at his ugly toupee, which looked like an SOS pad or something.
Imagine my relief, as I rocked my miserable child and realized: My mother is still alive; Frank Sinatra is still dead, never knew my mother and, while he wore toupees, they were never as ugly as the horror in my dream.
Did I mention that I have a cold, too? Of course I do. Of course.
*BabyGirl is 2 years old and can talk (a little) about what's hurting her--when she got her last shots, she was a brave little soldier during the first two shots (in her tender little thighs--yeeek!) but for the next two she cried and said Owie! and Hurts! which made even the nurses cry.
I sometimes have the usual sort of nightmare, where I'm running away from horrible things and can't get away, blah blah blah, but I more typically have the sort of nightmare that suggests a really twisted subconscious, to wit: I dreamed I was at my mother's wake and a very drunk Frank Sinatra (!) approached me to tell me about how he dated my mom and wasn't she the greatest, except that his conversation became increasingly inappropriate for a wake and even more inappropriate for the subject's daughter, for cryin out loud. And I found that I couldn't look him in the eye because I was staring at his ugly toupee, which looked like an SOS pad or something.
Imagine my relief, as I rocked my miserable child and realized: My mother is still alive; Frank Sinatra is still dead, never knew my mother and, while he wore toupees, they were never as ugly as the horror in my dream.
Did I mention that I have a cold, too? Of course I do. Of course.
*BabyGirl is 2 years old and can talk (a little) about what's hurting her--when she got her last shots, she was a brave little soldier during the first two shots (in her tender little thighs--yeeek!) but for the next two she cried and said Owie! and Hurts! which made even the nurses cry.
posted by jwoods at 2:28 PM
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