Cupcake Dreams

I want to be a kid again.  I want to tell stories the way my youngest daughter does.  I want to dream about cupcakes.  And I really, really want a Dream Teller of my very own.

During dinner last night, Little T was devouring my homemade spaghetti sauce and making me feel like Martha Stewart, Julia Child, and Ree Drummond, all rolled into one, and she mentioned that she knew she was going to have a good dinner tonight because her Dream Teller told her so.

Come again, daughter?

Your what?

That's right.  She has a Dream Teller.  Every morning, after a night of dreaming about cupcakes and unicorns and whatever other lovelies visit her while she is sleeping, her Dream Teller tells her what her dreams mean.  Here's last night's:

Actually, I don't want to be a kid again: I want to be THIS KID.

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Spunk and Muscles

 I just woke up from a panic dream.

Little T and I were walking along a beach on a lovely summer day.  People were all around us, playing in the water.  We came upon a stand of bleachers facing the water, maybe four or five rows high, and on the bleachers was a group of students from our old school, getting arranged for a class photo.  The teacher, a woman we know and like, stood about 5 or 10 feet in front of the bleachers, with a camera, waiting for the kids to settle into position.

She and I started talking, making conversation, catching up with one another.  We talked about how she just went shopping at Costco in preparation for her students' First Communion.  We reminisced about the First Communion celebrations my kids had when we were one of the school's families.

Suddenly, the tide came in, fast.  The water came up to my rib cage and knocked me off my feet for a moment.  And instead of flowing back out, the water stayed in, high up on the beach, now at about the middle of my thighs.  I looked up at the bleachers, amused by the reaction of the children who were now looking down at water swirling around beneath their bleacher rows.

And then, of course, the panic: Little T.  Where was she?  She was holding my hand a moment ago, and now my hand was empty and all I could see was murky ocean water.  The water was starting to pull back out, and I couldn't find her.  Feeling the strong pull on my own legs, I couldn't stop myself from imagining what that force could be doing to my daughter, pulling her under and straight out into the ocean, without me ever seeing her go.  In my mind's eye, I saw her arms and legs tumbling and rolling beyond where anyone could save her.  Water was rushing by me on all sides, as I frantically scanned the beach looking for her.  I started shaking, and the beach started closing in on me. The moments passed, and with each one, my fear and panic increased and my stomach heaved.

And then, as the water drained from underneath the bleachers, a laughing Little T emerged as well.  She had scurried under the benches while I was talking to the teacher, looked up at all those wonderful jungle gym-like metal rods and planks, and started climbing them.  When the water came in, she just climbed higher, until, with the water at its highest point, she ended up hanging on to the bottom of the highest bleacher row, flexing the 5 year old muscles she was showing off to me just last night before bed ("Mommy, I'm five now, so look how big my muscles are now?")  She was fine, happy even, pleased at the climbing adventure she had had and tickled by the game of keep away she had played with the tide.  Tickled, of course, because she had won.  She hadn't even gotten wet.

She saved herself.

And I woke up with that panicky feeling still holding on.  But I figure that dream is telling me that Little T is a survivor.  All she needs are the muscles and the spunk she already has, and she is going to ride high above life's fray and come out smiling.  Oh sure, I still parent her and do the time out thing and set boundaries and encourage creativity and read her books and make her eat vegetables. But I don't think I'll worry about her very much.  Instead, I'll just hope she's around if I ever need a MacGyver-type set of hands in an emergency.

And I will add two new things to the list of what to pray for:  spunk and muscles.  For all of us.

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Obama Spoke To Me In a Dream Last Night

Well, actually, he didn't, which is precisely the point.

We got iPhones a few months ago, and I have to admit, they are fairly miraculous. They have made many things easier and more fun, and I am thoroughly enjoying having one. But when my husband asked me the other day if I like my phone, I gave him the honest, if hard to admit, response: "I do like it, but I need to have a different relationship with it."

Apparently, Obama and my subconscious agree.

Last night, I dreamt that I was watching my daughter play in a soccer game against a team on which played one of the Obama girls. This was the coolest thing ever! There we were, on a great expanse of green grass, on a lovely sunny day, watching girls play the Beautiful Game, and there was Mr. President, looking casual, jaunty and charming, watching his daughter as well.

I was so excited! I might get to talk to him, to shake his hand, to ask him why John Boehner is such a tool!

But first, I thought, I have got to Facebook this!

So I stepped away from the field for a moment to try to compose some super witty post about Obama and me hanging out, but my phone was being testy, and the Facebook ap was being weird, and I couldn't get the post to go up. It was supremely frustrating. I tried for awhile, editing my thoughts, trying to come up with the best little phrase to capture the moment...and the ap was failing me big time.

Forget it, I thought. I can either post about being here with Obama, or I can go hang out with Obama. I'm opting for the latter! But as I turned back to the field and the other parents watching the game, I saw his motorcade pulling away. He had to leave before the end of the game (maybe to go over to Home Depot to find a new color of paint for the debt ceiling, since it seems like we might be stuck with the one we have). I watched him drive away and felt like such a fool for missing my chance.

Gone. Gone. I didn't get to talk to the Leader of the Free World, because I had my stupid nose stuck in my stupid iPhone, trying to compose some stupid FB post. Stupid is as stupid does.

If I had one of these, I'd have to edit it...

...to say Soccer Mama missed Obama.

So yes, I need a different relationship with my iPhone. Clearly, it's getting in the way of some IRL moments. Obama may not be in my living room, but six other people are, and they might just be more important in my little sphere of existence.

At least I don't need a professional to interpret this one for me.

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