She talks in her sleep. Not very often, but she definitely talks in her sleep. I hear her on the baby monitor as clearly as if she were lying in bed with me. What does she say? “Muh-muh” which, when translated, means “cereal”. So, apparently the Queen has frequent dreams about her cream of wheat with butter & cinnamon, oatmeal with brown sugar and toast, and—because she is my daughter, afterall—Boo Berry.
Then there are occasions where she’s fully awake & talking. A typical night finds me summoned to her room with a drawn out “Ommmmmaaaaa” to take her to the potty, or bring her some water, or find her Meer that she’s dropped & can’t find because it’s dark, or file a jagged fingernail that she discovered at 2:30 a.m.
Or all the above.
Last night, we had both. She awakened and called out for me. “Ommmmmaaaaaa,” she said. I hopped out of bed, opened her door, and asked, “What do you need, Punkin’?” From the darkness, she says, “Meer”(I leave the light off so as not to wake her up even more.) I’m usually awakened by the sound of her mirror hitting her wood floor or bouncing off the baseboards, but this time, I’d heard nothing. Deductive reasoning told me the Meer was still on her bed, but out of reach for her to find in the dark.
It was.
I handed it to her, kissed her mouth then gave her a sideways kiss on the dip above the bridge of her nose between her eyebrows. “Night-night, I love you,” I whispered. “Ah nah nah,” she said (that’s Queen-speak for “I love you.”)
I climbed back into bed, fully expecting to be called again. I don’t close my eyes until I hear her rhythmic breathing, which tells me she’s back to sleep. It didn’t take long before that happened, and the cadence lulled me to sleep.
Sometime later, I was awakened again. “Momma,” she said. It was quiet. Clear. I lay still, listening for the familiar sound of stirring as she sits up in bed, which lets me know if I’m needed or if she’s simply talking in her sleep.
Continued silence.
And then, once more, “Momma.” This time, I could hear her smiling when she said it.
So many times I’ve looked at her & said, “I sure wish I knew what was going through that beautiful, wild-haired head of yours.”
In the early hours of the morning, before the sun had even thought about rising, I did. My daughter was thinking about—dreaming about—me.
Why was this so awesome? Why was this profound?
It was all in the way she said it. I’ve always been “Omma” when she needs me to pick up her Good Housekeeping magazine she’s dropped. Or walk her to the swing. Or feed her lunch. Or when she’s calling for me to watch her play air guitar while her keyboard plays the pre-programmed tunes of “Camptown Ladies.” Doo-dah. Doo-dah.
I am “Momma” when she’s sitting on my lap with her arms around me as I rock her back & forth…back & forth, or when she’s feeling particularly sentimental and gives me kisses me on the forehead. I am “Momma” when she wants to make sure I know she loves me.
So, while lying in bed across the hall from sleeping beauty, I finally was able to know just what was going through that beautiful wild-haired head of hers. I was.
Thank You, Lord. A blessing, indeed.
You can read more about Britni here.