I’m talking about my children, of course.
Last Saturday night Sherry and I were awakened about about 4:00 a.m. by our sobbing 19-year-old. Recently returned from a year in college in Mexico, she’s back living at home.
Anyway, she collapsed on the bed with us beside herself (on top of Sherry beside me, to be more accurate), and I think it took a good three minutes (trust me; that’s a long time in that context) before she could control herself enough to tell us what was going on.
It turned out to be a bad dream about me dying. I wasn’t expecting that. The three of us lay there together like the last three pieces of flatware on the planet as her sob spasms spent themselves, and as weird as it may sound, I felt pretty happy. I haven’t cuddled with my daughter until she went back to sleep since kindergarten. I didn’t know I missed it, but it’s clear to me now that I do.
I told a lie. She didn’t go back to sleep. Adults unaccustomed to sleeping together can’t cuddle and go back to sleep. Dang. It was still nice, though.
The next day I watched her as a bride’s maid in her best friend’s wedding. I could make parallels to the kindergarten Christmas program, but I’ll just count my blessings and move on.