When we stayed in Ohio for Thanksgiving, we became a veritable bed and breakfast, overflowing with cousins, aunts, and uncles. My parents, the boys, and I took over the downstairs rooms, sprawling across a futon, a couch, and a pull-out sofa. We were lined up like a slumber party.
We all do a lot of things in our sleep, we learned. We gave each other a report each morning.
My children wander to find me. They are very momcentric, especially in their sleep.
I stroke my own arms like I'm playing the violin. (This is news to me.)
My dad, a therapist by profession, gives thorough lectures - complete with extensive vocabulary and nearly everything except PowerPoint. "We all want to live exquisite lives," he tells us in his sleep.
Indeed we do, Dad.
In the midst of his midnight ramblings, he said with crystal clarity, "How are you feeling today, Tricia?"
I sat up from my side of the room.
"I'm okay, Dad."
My mom said, "It's okay, honey. He's sleeping."
My sweet dad. In the midst of the sleeping work day and the lectures he's conducting in his dreams, his emerging thought is, "How is my girl?"
Once a parent, always a parent. Even in slumber.