First Person Dream

You’re vexed with your father this morning because he woke you from a dream in which you were a dog with the ability to fly.

Dada woke me up from the best dream, you cry, yanking the comforter over your head.

I peel the comforter back a little. Well, that stinks, I say, and bend to kiss your cheek. How about this? After breakfast, maybe you could draw this flying dog for me, so I can imagine it?

My suggestion enrages you. You kick your feet, but there’s ten extra pounds of winter blankets on the bed and you’re little legs can’t do any damage. You bust from the bed, cheeks aflame. Mama! you snap, hands on your hips. It was a first person dream. I can’t draw myself because I can’t SEE myself, duh!

I hide my smile. Turn away to open the blinds.

Well, damn, I say. How were the tops of the trees?

You howl with indignation and dive back into bed, yanking the comforter over your head. I knot my robe and head downstairs, giving you a little space to cool your jets. Your dad is at the kitchen table, a holiday playlist offering merciless tidings. He smiles when I come into the kitchen, points to the French press. We have a goblin this morning? he asks, assessing my face.

I make oatmeal with maple syrup, cinnamon, cream. I can hear 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 the front of my neck when you start down the stairs. You stop at the bottom step and scowl at us. We’re not sure why this is funny, but it is.

Don’t laugh! you say, your hands on your hips again, stomping your foot.

I meet you at the bottom step. You’re an absolute terror, I say, reaching to pull you close, burying my nose in your neck. You let me kiss your flaming cheeks five times, each side, and follow me to the kitchen table, instantly dropping your frustration to sing along with your favorite Christmas song, which your dad played when he heard you coming down the stairs.

You sit in my lap to eat your oatmeal, the treetop canopy stretching green and forever.