Waking Up

Last night I had THE most perfect dream. Every blessed once-in-a-while, I have dreams that read EXACTLY like a movie plot, and I’m not involved at all. Last night was one of those nights.
The past few nights, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m a light sleeper -a natural byproduct of motherhood -and the past few nights have been noisy. I don’t need total silence to sleep… on the contrary, I actually sleep better with white noise, but once I’m out cold… any little cough, sneeze, sniffle, creak… and I’m up checking the kids’ breathing, making sure the doors and windows are locked, and getting a small drink.

It all caught up with me last night, and as I lay me down to sleep, I prayed the Lord to let me ACTUALLY sleep.
And I did.
For nearly an hour.
Then I was up with my daughter. She had spilled some water all over herself at midnight, which as you can imagine, was really uncomfortable for her.
After I had her situated and had checked that every household appliance was off… I went back to bed.

Aaaaaaand I dreamed. Of what? Of Margret. Margret was a college student circa 1965. She had a little money, and used it to take a hold of her freedom and go abroad to a place she’d dreamed of going all her life: Italy.
—It must here be noted that I’m DETERMINED to learn Italian, and I practice it with my daughter using a Learn Italian App on my phone. We’re getting very good. And by “very good” I mean… we can say “thank you” and “you’re welcome” back and forth all the live long day. Can you do that? Grazie. Prego.—

Margret only had enough money for a plane ticket OVER to Italy… not enough to fly home, but her independent spirit reigned the day. She flew over and took what little money she had left to feed herself and find a humble bed for the night. The next day, she set out to do what she’d dreamed of doing for YEARS:
PAINT. In Italy.
So she did. She gave little care to the world around her, and she painted. She had no idea that a local was watching her -a local MAN, of course. He tried to introduce himself, but he had a hard time seeing as how Margret’s Italian was even worse than broken. He was able to convey to her that his name was Roberto. She was able to convey to him that her name was Margret. He took her under his wing and introduced her to his mother, taught her the Italian word for “ice cream” and in due time (which is to say somewhere between the hours of 12 midnight and 4 am) Margret fell in love. She knew her Italian vacation was going to end soon, and she tried not to think about it.
But the day finally came. She dreaded it. Roberto dreaded it. They never spoke of it until they day they spent together picnicking by a lake. Even then, it wasn’t outright mentioned. Margret just started sobbing in a very brokenhearted manner, and Roberto UNDERSTOOD EXACTLY why she was crying without her having to SAY anything.
Because it’s a dream, right?
Her picked her up.
(It’s a dream)
And walked back to his home where he lived with his mother who was also 100% in love with adorably, artsy Margret.
Margret realized then what she’d suspected but I knew all along: she was in love.
“Is it possible?” She asked Roberto, as silent tears slid down her perfect face.
He didn’t answer. I’d LIKE to say it was because he was touched, but I’m more or less certain it was because he had no flipping idea what she’d just said.
I mean really: she’d only known Roberto for a small time. They didn’t even SPEAK the same LANGUAGE. Was it possible?
Once back home, Roberto’s mother was busy talking to the house help about how she wouldn’t be needed. Incidentally, I understood everything they were saying because my brain was the author of the dream. She told her she wouldn’t be needed anymore because her son Roberto was destined to marry the American Margret and that the only help that they would need would be The Mama.
As Roberto, The Mama, Margret, and The Lady Helper Girl sat in the kitchen together, they didn’t say much. They all knew Margret was hours from leaving them for good.
Roberto abruptly got up and left.
The Mama took Margret’s hands in her own, and they shared a tearful moment.
After a time, Roberto came back. He was riding a bicycle and carrying a small white box. What was in the box? A set of designer painting brushes (and, thanks to my brain, a random crochet hook). Roberto jumped from his bike, neverminding that it crashed into the side of the family barn, and with shaking hands pried open the white box. He pulled the brushes out, haphazardly arranged them in the shape of a bouquet, ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair and walked back into his kitchen.
Without a word, because even if he HAD spoken it wouldn’t have mattered, he got down on one knee by Margret’s side. She was stunned. She was afraid. She knew she had to be crazy to accept his proposal.
But she knew, deep down, that she’d be even MORE crazy to refuse. So she embraced him, and I assume they went on to have a lovely wedding with a large Italian reception where they served (what else?) ice cream to their guests.
I wouldn’t actually know since I was roused from my picturely perfect lush Italian dream where romance blossomed with every ticking minute… by my husband’s snoring.

Talk about OUCH!

I mean: don’t get me wrong. My husband is amazing, but to be roused out of such a perfect story by SNORING?! Damper!

So I did what I’ve done at least 6 times before, I got out of bed and I wrote my story down as quickly as I could so I wouldn’t forget it, and then I went back to bed. I was disappointed. We never want a good story to end: but this was especially awful on account of their being absolutely gone. Forever. At least when The Princess Bride is over I know I can pop it in on any given Tuesday and revisit it again.
But Robert and Margret? And The Mama? They’re gone. So I went to bed with a mixture of a heavy heart and a euphoric feeling -the kind that sweeps you over when the boy gets the girl.

It reminded me of church yesterday. It was my turn to do Sharing Time with the kids, and I spoke to them about their Heavenly Father. We talked about trusting in him because he is the SMARTEST. He knows more than we do which is why he asked Noah to build the ark and why he gave Sister Deets a baby boy when she thought she didn’t want one.
Heavenly Father knew what was best.
“I’m going to tell you a secret,” I said, leaning down into the microphone, “Are you listening?”
The kids nodded.
“You have people in your lives right now that love you. You will have more people in your lives when you get older that will love you. You will love them too, but you know what? They won’t mean to, but they’ll disappoint you. They might hurt you and they’ll let you down from time to time. But guess what? Heavenly Father NEVER will. You can rely on him because he is the smartest, he loves you, and he will never, ever, ever let you down.”
I poured my heart into my testimony, sharing my very soul with those kids. When I finished, a little girl in the front row raised her hand.
“Yes, Kellie?” The little girl pulled her top lip to the left and her bottom lip to the right.
“When I do THIS,” she said leaning forward so I could see, “I look like an elephant.”

I just had to laugh.
And just like my husband’s snoring that brought me back to earth, Kellie’s elephant lips pulled me right back as well.

In the meantime, I’ll have to immortalize Margret’s story so I can pick it up and read it whenever earth gets too… real. That means I’ve got to work beyond Grazie and Prego.


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