8:18 p.m. of a Thursday, and I just got back from a deeply pleasant 3o hours in New York City. Now, don't get me wrong: I really do like spending big blocks of time in the colorful, plush world of Cleo. But, that said, I couldn't resist the occasional feeling, while in NYC, that I had somehow been granted some cushy block of R&R, far from the chaotic front. Medieval manuscripts at the Morgan; a dinner with my brother and his fiancee; comparing Herbert Muschamp's review of The New Museum with the real thing, in person: it was a rejuvenating break from the block- and hippo- and pear puree-filled trenches of modern fatherhood.It was also, I realized as I prepared for the bus trip north, only my second night away from Cleo. Given that she's been around for about 225 nights, and that I've been within 30 feet of her for 223 of those, perhaps it's not surprising then that I woke up, suddenly and panicked, last night at about 1, and realized that I couldn't see her anywhere in the living room where I was sleeping. Only half awake, I had the strong sense that I was supposed to have been caring for her, but had somehow lost her. Under the table? No. Behind my pillow? Not there. And only very slowly did it dawn on me that she was safe at home in Baltimore, with Mommy in the next room.
Clearly, then, unusual travel can prompt unusual dreams. In point of fact, though, I've had comparable dreams in recent weeks when I'm in at home, as well. The same sense of having lost her has occurred to me a couple of times, in the middle of the night. And over the weekend, I had a dream that was utterly simple, but that felt, during the dreaming ominously tragic: I dreamt that I woke to find Cleo a four-year-old, happy but no longer a baby, and no longer able to fit in the crook of my arm as I move about the house. Sure, I look forward to when she's four, but there was something deeply sad about her imagined premature maturity, and when I woke I realized that I'm not yet quite done with her being a baby.
And, thankfully, neither is she. She sleeps now, at 8:33, just down the hall from me and L.: a small and simple family whole again.
Clearly, then, unusual travel can prompt unusual dreams. In point of fact, though, I've had comparable dreams in recent weeks when I'm in at home, as well. The same sense of having lost her has occurred to me a couple of times, in the middle of the night. And over the weekend, I had a dream that was utterly simple, but that felt, during the dreaming ominously tragic: I dreamt that I woke to find Cleo a four-year-old, happy but no longer a baby, and no longer able to fit in the crook of my arm as I move about the house. Sure, I look forward to when she's four, but there was something deeply sad about her imagined premature maturity, and when I woke I realized that I'm not yet quite done with her being a baby.
And, thankfully, neither is she. She sleeps now, at 8:33, just down the hall from me and L.: a small and simple family whole again.
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