Two nights ago Carl’s shouting jerked me upright from a deep sleep.
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! WHOA! WHOOAA!” My husband was running across our bedroom, grabbing at the floor. I yelled, stopping him inches from the wall. He turned around, slowly waking up as he climbed back into bed.
“What was that all about?”
“I don’t know…some sort of mound…or…thing…was scuttling off with our children. I was trying to grab them. Just confirm for me – where are the kids?”
“Asleep in their crib.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve written about our mutual sleepwalking-sleeptalking tendencies. Now, though, it’s not Rick Santorum’s baby that’s missing, it’s ours. A few nights a week, someone dreams that we’ve lost a baby in our bed. One moment our kid is there, the next it’s not. We wake up patting frantically at an empty pillowcase or tugging at the sheet, looking for an infant who was never in our bed in the first place. I know we’re not the only ones – my brother had the same dream when his firstborn arrived. At least things have improved since our first week with the twins; one night we each woke at least half a dozen times looking for lost babies.When not bleary-eyed and irritated at the sleep interruption, I find it fascinating that different humans have the same dream and such a strong urge to protect our kids.
At least sometimes the dream-baby is in our bed but not lost. Last night I laughed in my sleep, waking Carl.
“What’s so funny?”
“She just made a cute face.”
“You do realize she’s asleep in her crib in the other room?”