I tend to have trouble, in the moment, differentiating between reality and a dream. As, for example, when I woke my husband up screaming because a man with a tomato cage was attacking me. (In my defense, I was pregnant at the time and pregnancy tends to lead to “interesting” dreams.)
So about 3:30 this morning, T crawls into bed with us, crying. I can tell by the sound that it’s not a life-threatening issue, whatever it is, so my WAKE UP RIGHT NOW Mama Adrenalin doesn’t kick in. I ask him what’s wrong, groggily. He tells me his foot is broken. I mumble something reassuring and he keeps crying. Mumble, cry, repeat. Finally I realize I need to actually wake up and deal with the situation, and I ask him what’s wrong and focus on the answer. “My foot is broken,” he tells me, in the most distraught voice imaginable. “What do you need,” I ask. “Turn on the big light and look at it,” he sniffs, pathetically. So I reach up and turn on the light and we look at his foot together (well, he looks and I sort of blearily point my eyes in what I hope is the right direction). He looks up at me and, with a huge, relieved smile, says “it was just a DREAM!”
Clearly my son. The not-going-back-to-sleep until 6 am, part, though, must come from the milkman, because neither his father nor I would have any trouble with that if not for the squirming talking alien being in our bed. (My husband was actually off to the Albuquerque Balloon Festival bright and early, so he was less bothered by the whole scenario. Thankfully.)
