Flying children

I wanted to sleep later this morning, but there was this nightmare.

The whole family is departing a jolly party. Professor Biker is carrying out his parting schmoozes. My 11-year-old, a.k.a. Little Fire, and her seven-year-old brother, a.k.a. Sweet Slugger, are vamping in the snow outside.

There’s a sled. Fire decides to slide down a big pile of snow. She’s in a red parka just like the little boy in The Snowy Day. I turn away to check on the goodbyes. When I turn around, my girl has accidentally hooked her sled or her coat onto a passing mobile crane or tow-truck or something doing 40 or 50 MPH. Suddenly, she is flying up the street, arms and legs akimbo, whooping and hollering like she’s actually not terrified. FLYING.

Anyone near my bed would have heard my screams. In my dream, I run frantically down the street, shouting to the driver to stop. There is no catching up. So I stand in the middle of a city block, turning a 360, watching my girl fly up one street, down another, back another and then off toward who-knows-what.

I woke in a cold sweat and made sure Little Fire was still safely tucked into her Saturday morning sleep-in. Still my girl. Not flying away. Not yet.