First Person Dream

You were vexed with your father this morning because he woke you from a dream in which you were a flying werewolf. Dada woke me from the best dream, you cry, yanking the comforter over your head.

I peel the covers back and kiss your forehead, and in a gentle, singsong voice, ask, Well, do you think you could draw this werewolf for me?

My question is apparently enraging.

Your feet tantrum, sending the comforter boiling, but there’s ten extra pounds of winter blanket and you can’t sustain the weight. Your torso bursts forth, green eyes glowing, cheeks flaming pink.

Mama! you snap, your entire body vibrating, It was a first person dream. I can’t DRAW myself because I can’t SEE myself, duh!

I open the blinds. Swallow laughter.

Well, damn, I say. How was the tree canopy?

You howl with indignation and retract into the covers. I tiptoe to the foot of the bed, lift the corner, find a toe and give a gentle tug. You shriek like you’ve been stabbed in the kidney.  

I zip out of the room before you can burst from your den, down the stairs, slippers suspended over gleaming cherry. In the kitchen, your father sits at the table, a playlist called Christmas Jazz offering merciless tidings. He’s timed it perfectly. My favorite mug is full of freshly pressed coffee, still steaming.

I hover at the counter, near the dishwasher, prepare oatmeal with maple syrup, cinnamon, extra cream. I can track the path of your feet above my head, the opening and closing of the bathroom’s pocket door, the drawers of your pine dresser slapping shut as you choose your flamboyance for the day. Joy surges up my neck when you start down the stairs.

You stop at the bottom step. Scowling.

I can’t help it. Laughter shoots from every hole in my face.

You’re such a pain in the ass sometimes, I say, my arms reaching past your shoulders, your forehead tucked against my chest, my nose in your hair. And I’m the luckiest mom in the world.

You let me kiss your flaming biscuits ten times, each side, and eat your oatmeal while sitting in my lap, the canopy of trees stretching green and for forever.