Nightmares

About two weeks ago, one lovely morning, I woke up at about 4am and thought that I could hear some odd noises. I waited those few requisite moments for the fog to clear from my skull and concentrated a little harder, trying to ascertain whether it was the sort of noise that one drags their arse out of bed for, or ignores and goes back to sleep. With those moments past, it started to sound suspiciously like the TV was on downstairs, which sadly for me fits into the category of arse-dragging worthiness.

So, having committed myself to the trek, I made my way down stairs to find the little pink think snuggled upon the couch with her pillow and blanket quietly and happily watching TV. I asked what was going on and she let me know that she’d had a scary dream. I asked her what it was about, but with a fevered little shake of her head, informed me that it was too scary to talk about.

I opted for not pursuing it further, rather devoting my energy at that time to getting both her and I back into bed.

With that achieved, I slept through until the alarm went off what seemed to be only moments later. But I didn’t forget. Later I pursued the course of questioning that would ascertain the root cause of the nightmare. When pressed I was informed that it was a “Madagascar dream.” That was both surprising and puzzling so I said, “I thought you liked Madagascar.”

“I only want to see the second one, I don’t like the first one,” I was told. I let her know that next time, rather than go down and turn the TV on that she should come and tell me and let me help her that way instead.

The next couple of weeks passed with out incident until the other night, when at 2am I was awoken by small footsteps advancing toward the bed. Warding off the desire to turn them away sight unseen, I allowed the little girl to climb into my bed for a few moments whilst she calmed down. Once again, scary dreams seemed to be the issue and again, it was too scary to talk about.

Of course, welcoming a small child into one’s bed isn’t ever the comfortable and snuggly experience people sometimes make it out to be. It’s more about elbows and cold feet in disconcerting places and how a 3 foot tall little thing can take up 90% of the available bed space. And as a result of that it was only about 5 minutes later that I was escorting her back to her bed and promising that I would lay down with her for a bit, which was a great promise to make until we reached her bed and I realized that that the last two feet of it was occupied by various toys. This left plenty of room for Em to stretch out, but very little for Daddy.

I only lasted another 5-10 minutes and then I abandoned her to resume sleeping. And thus it was that some 10 minutes after I returned to my bed and attempted to douse the activity that had commenced in my brain I once again heard footsteps. I waited patiently to receive the expected guest but was surprised to find that the footsteps retreated. Retreated, yes, but not back to bed; rather down the stairs and yes, once again I heard the incriminating beep that meant the TV was on. Arse dragging time was back again.

Rather than put her back to bed and face that discomfort, or struggle to accommodate her in my own little night time haven, I pulled her quilt and pillow into my room and had her sleep on the floor beside my bed. That way, when she woke me again, at 4 am, things were a little easier to manage.

And again, the following day I worked to find out just what had been so scary. After much resistance, a quiet and timid little voice gave me just two words.

“Lost Doggy.”

I got dragged out of bed and all over the house and unseemly and ridiculous times of the night for a lost dog? We don’t even own a bloody dog, so it was someone else’s lost dog! Total bastardry, that’s what it was.