I know this is going to sound mean, but listening to our kids tell me about the dreams they had the night before is mind numbing. I hear them, I do. I smile and nod and gasp at all of the nonsensical details.
Still, though when they come to me in the morning and say “You wanna hear about my dream last night?” If I were to be honest, my response would be “I’d rather chew broken glass, sweetheart.”
My friend Pete Redmond once said “Unless you’re Martin Luther King, Jr., no one cares about your dreams.” That is the bitter truth, guys. Once you turn 9 or so, you should stop telling people about the dream you had last night…unless it was about someone’s impending death by a lightening strike or something.Then maybe mention it- you’d feel really bad if you didn’t and then they died while sitting on a metal bench enjoying their tuna sandwich and a storm rolled in. So, mention death dreams, I guess.
Mia came downstairs this morning and, just like every other morning, wanted to tell me about her dream.
Mia: “It was hilarious! I dreamed that you got off the treadmill and this young guy was leaning against a wall and he said “Hey- I like your boobs.” But then it turned sad because you thought he was hot and you decided that you wanted to marry him a little bit more than Daddy. Him and Daddy got in a fight and Dad just said “Whatever, I’m tired. You can have her.” Isn’t that so funny?”
Me: “Yeah…that’s funny! The part where Dad just gave up is my favorite part.”
Mia: “No, the funny part is that no guy would say “I like your boobs”. I mean, they wouldn’t say it to YOU because yours are, like, you know, so tiny and all.”
Garrett: “No, the funny part is that Mom was ever on a treadmill.”
Mia will be 9 in a matter of days and will be prohibited from talking about her dreams from then on. Unless it’s about one of us being mauled or me getting a book deal or something- then I’m all ears.