“I’m not telling! Arrrrgggghhhhhh!”
I sprang out of bed and was down the stairs to The Boy’s room before I even knew I was awake.
Flinging the door open and flicking on the light half expecting to see a stranger in the room, I bellowed out to The Boy.
He was sitting up in bed: “Mummy I had a bad dream!”
Too right my son I thought you could have woken everyone in the village with that yell! “Are you alright love? Do you need to go to the loo?” I say. Those commonplace phrases one uses when words would otherwise fail you, in your relief that nothing is exactly wrong.
He gets up and pads to the loo where he is met by his Dad and as I go to join them after checking that the room is clear of bogey men and other night time terrors, I hear all about the dream.
“Mummy was murdering the dogs!”
I stop on the landing. And wait…what other awful things am I supposed to have done I wonder? I am shocked. I don’t want to be the baddie in my sons’ dreams.
I step forward into the bathroom and The Boy realises I have overheard by the look on my face.
“It’s alright Mummy,” he says, reaching out to hold my hand. “It was only a dream!”