Flying

 

Two nights ago, I had one of those dreams where you wake up, but you’re still asleep. I tried to fully wake by attempting to fling over on my side. But I stayed in the dream and just rolled off the side of the bed. I got up and saw Kiki in the doorway. She wore her pink pajama set, which she often wears, and it looked like she was waiting for me.

We walked through the house to the back door and excitedly opened the sliding door to go outside. The backyard looked different. There were little white lights strung around everywhere, and a huge deck with fire pits and TVs hung up. I sat in a chair in front of a fire pit and said to her, “I’m so happy we're in this dream together.”

She replied, “This isn’t a dream.”

I jumped from the chair I was sitting in and flew high into the sky, to show her it was a dream. I flew over the yard and then hovered above the house, looking back at her. Then she flew up into the sky, too.

Then I woke up. The next morning, I told my daughter about the dream, and I asked her, “Did you have the same dream?”

It felt right. The dream left me feeling so amazing. She told me no, and added something about how ridiculous the question is.

I’ve had the kids for most of this month, and it’s been lovely to have them all the time. The only extracurricular is G's soccer. He is new to the game, and he’s picking it up. I get antsy watching. My body reacts when I see the ball being kicked around as if I could pull some puppet strings attached to the players. 

When I played soccer in middle school, I was, without question, the worst player on the team. The only person who was thrilled to have me on the team was the second-to-worst person. Everyone else was indifferent because I never could mess a game up in a critical moment, since I’d be watching from the bench. It didn’t faze me, and I had fun hanging out with my friends.

G’s soccer games can be intense because the kids are damn good at soccer. They're juggling that ball, and bouncing it off their heads, and I’m at the sidelines doing the dog pound chant from Arsenio Hall. Some of the parents are cut from a different cloth. I smell their militant self-discipline. 

I was once reading my book while the team warmed up, and listened to this dad talk about his son to some other parents. He said, “He is reaching a limit. He has continued to be top of his class academically, and he has two hours of practice every night and four games a weekend.”

This explains why they're all so good, playing in multiple leagues each season. Whatever they did to their kids early on to make them get in line, I commend. I start screaming at my kids to put their shoes on thirty minutes before we actually leave, otherwise we will be late. One hour of homework has to be rewarded with two hours of TV. We are finally at a point where I can believe them when they tell me they don't have homework, after two years of parent-teacher conferences, where one time my daughter said to the teacher, in front of me, that I am too trusting. My jaw dropped.

I get it, though. When I get home, I don't want to work. The minute I walk in the door, I change into pajamas. My daughter does the same, usually the pink set. If I didn’t have to worry about one day finding a man because my kids will move out in five years, I'd probably only eat ice cream sandwiches and have a full wardrobe of matching sweatsuits. I don’t think I will find one at a soccer game, even though it is the height of my social life these days.

The kids are going to their dad’s this weekend, so I can say goodbye to these dishpan hands at the same time as I say goodbye to them in the morning, but I already miss them. Tonight, when I walked into Kiki's room to say goodnight, I said, “That was my favorite dream. I think one day you’ll have that dream too. From your perspective. Why would we have to have it at the same time?”

She said, "I don't think we're that connected. Maybe it would happen with my dad."

Then I hit her over the head with a pillow, and she started laughing.