What shall I dream of?


For months, Eliza’s bedtime routine has ended with this question and L or I searching for a response that meets Eliza’s needs. It has almost completely replaced a bedtime song, but not a story. Eliza usually rejects the first few suggestions, sometimes with shrill voice. Winners tend to be, dream about: riding a horse; so-and-so’s party; seeing your cousin; visiting grandparents. The effort to find an acceptable response is worth it: typically within minutes, Eliza is asleep, dreaming maybe, but probably not of the idea we’ve given her.


Saturday morning, Gabe fussed and fussed about going to football: didn’t want to play matches, just practice; didn’t like being shouted at by the coach; didn’t like playing other teams; worried about getting hurt by metal studs; worried he was not good enough to play for the Jets; wanted to stop going to the club. At the front door, he suddenly felt ill. His mood lightened once we were in the car (I wish my moods were as easily switched). His head was definitely together in time for the match: he played a tight game, making tackles, interceptions, short passes, a long shot and one exhilirating run up the wing. The team won its first league game and the coach made him man of the match for doing the simple things so well. “A stormer” I overheard him say. Gabe has decided to stay at the club for the rest of the season.


Baby Ben and family visited for Bonfire Night. The two little ones were the keenest on the sparklers (the full extent of our engagement with explosives). Robin’s conduct was good through tea and into the garden with the sparklers. Then he tired and the prospect of bath with Ben brought out his animosity to the most harmless of playmates. “I hate Ben. I not want him here..”. He recovered a little when in the bath, squirting water, but had to be lifted out when he caught Ben in the face with a jet of bathwater.


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