I never remember my dreams, which is a shame because I have such a lively imagination.
How awesome would it be to wake up one morning with a vivid memory of being a meatball who’s chased around town by a wedge of Parmesan Cheese? (I assume most of my dreams are about meatballs).
I’d love to know what it feels like to be a meatball but, alas, such joys are only for the dream rememberers.
Jenny remembers her dreams.
Nothing brings my wife more joy than telling me every single detail of a dream I wasn’t in. She’ll even wake me up to do it and gets really mad when I absolutely DO NOT CARE.
My wife once woke me from a dead sleep insisting that she’d been shot, which is a horrible way to wake someone up.
As soon as I discerned she was talking about a dream and my heart rate dipped back down from quadruple digits, I rolled over and went back to sleep, which somehow made me the bad guy.
I guess it would be frustrating to have a story about being shot and nobody tell it to but I doubt it’s as frustrating as being woken up by someone who hasn’t been shot.
Though I admittedly DO NOT CARE about my wife’s dreams, I’d love to know what my children dream about.
I often ask my two-year-old daughter when she wakes up if she saw any pictures in her sleep but she usually either responds, “open curtains,” or “poopy diaper.” She’s very good at living in the moment.
She once responded by singing Frosty the Snowman, which may actually be what she dreams about. Snowmen are something of an obsession for her. We met Mr. Peanut this weekend and she insisted he was a snowman because he wears a top hat.
Dreams are Mad Libs for the subliminal recesses of your soul and if my daughter’s soul had to name five nouns, “snowman” would definitely be one of them.
I’ve gotten so bad at remembering my dreams that I can’t even remember the last time I remembered a dream. In fact, lately I’ve found myself struggling to even remember things that actually happened during the night.
Our newborn sleeps in our room just one wall away from our toddler so tip-toe theatrics take place multiple times per night. It isn’t at all unusual for me to be jarred awake by my newborn crying only to be told to, “go back to sleep, it’s only a clogged nipple.”
I’ve been so tired lately I no longer clarify that she’s talking about a bottle’s rubber nipple.
By the time my toddler goes to bed and the baby is finally down I’m exhausted but I stay up a little bit later just to feel like myself.
Turns out I like feeling like myself, so I stay up even later still reading, writing, or watching TV. It’s a vicious cycle.
Being able to remember my dreams would probably help me break the cycle.
I’ve never been very good at going to sleep (though I’m exceptional at staying asleep) so vivid dreams would be the perfect attraction to draw me in a little earlier.
Maybe I’m just too prudent to pay careful enough attention to my dreams.
I’m not normally one to second-guess God but having angels speak to people in their dreams seems like a very unreliable communication method. I wouldn’t trust any messenger who only existed in my dreams.
That’s the modern equivalent of reaching out via an unsolicited text message. You have a $50 Amazon gift card waiting for you AND you shall bear the Lord’s son then name him Jesus Christ.
I like to think if God called on me to do something I’d respond but if he did it in a dream I’d more likely just say “no more spicy food before bed.”
Which also would’ve been the lesson from my many, many meatball dreams – if I only could remember.
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