“I had a bad dream.”
He admits while curling into a ball with his head in my lap.
I know this has to be hard (I asked permission to even tell you about it) to confess his nightmares.
“You want to talk about it?”
At almost thirteen he lives on that edge between wanting to find comfort in me and feeling too old to hide away in safety of mom.
“You rolled down the driveway and you flipped out of your chair. I couldn’t help you.”
We have a very long driveway and the end is quite steep. I don’t go there by myself because it IS unsafe for me.
My son dreamed of a reality where I needed him, and he wasn’t there.
Nathaniel’s fear was one of my own.
“You know I’m very careful and I never go out of my way to put myself in harm’s way.”
“Do you promise me to never flip over?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You can promise me you’ll never flip?”
“Nathaniel. Look at me! Do I look like a gymnast to you?”
For a few good laughs the bad dreams run away.
I’m not the only one that came home with scars.