The Gambler

About forty minutes ago, as I was sitting here at my desk, I heard the door to Lily's room crack open ever so slightly. I turned and saw her face peeking out at me. "Mama?" she said.

"Yes," I said, in a less friendly fashion. These days my desire for the girls to fall asleep when I walk out of their bedroom borders on desperation. I am constantly calculating how many hours and minutes I will have to do the things I need to do once they are both snoring lightly behind closed doors.

"I was having a dream (a waking dream, apparently) about a fox, and I got scared." This has become a recurrent theme--you may have noticed. Lily has a "dream" about something she is not scared of and tries to buy some time by emerging to elaborate on it in creative albeit excruciating detail.

"But foxes are not scary," I say. "Think of a reddish-colored combination of a cat and a dog," I continue, reading an email as I speak. "With a pointy little face."

"That's an interesting idea," she considers, "But in my dream the fox is scary. He is chasing me, and, and--" she is stalled, can't think of where to go next. She is remembering, perhaps, that I am not so sympathetic to fake chase scenes.

"I want you to go back into your bed, close your eyes, make the fox appear, and make friends with him," I say, knowing there is no way this will fly. I am too tired, my need is too great, too obvious. There are going to be stern words issued on the part of the larger (in size if not in generosity of time and spirit) of us. Lily yawns, then smiles.

"That's a great idea, Mama," she says. "I don't have any friends who are foxes."

Luck of the draw, sometimes.