Kids. I know I love ’em.

Kids. I know I love ’em.

I was wakened from my nap today by the boy coming home from school. He asked how I slept; I told him I slept well and had a good dream about Rome. He asked me to describe it.

“I had dropped you guys off at a restaurant,” I said, “and was apparently driving into a village somewhere to pick something up. I’d crossed over a couple multi-lane highways and traveled through some roundabouts, and decided at a red light that I’d better look back and try to remember how to get back. When I looked behind me, a thick fog had crept in and I couldn’t see a thing. I realized I didn’t have my phone, and that I didn’t know the name of the restaurant I’d left you. I started panicking a little, and that’s when you woke me up.”

He was watching me curiously through the story and finally said, “How was that a good dream? It sounds terrifying.”

“Well, you know, because we were in Rome . . . ” I said, lamely.

Quiet. Then, “Mom. If you get shot in Happyland, you’re still dead.” Then he walked away, shaking his head.

“Good insight . . . !” I called after him.

Blasted teen years.

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