Morphine Dreams

Primo was only given one dose of morphine, the morning before his appendectomy. But it seemed to take a pretty long time to make its way out of his system. I am referring specifically to some totally nutty dreams the kid had, the first few nights after his surgery. On the first night, he was so doped up, I don’t think he dreamt at all, was just out like a light, when he wasn’t waking me to navigate the IV pole to the bathroom. But on the second night, when we were at home, things got wild.

I was so bone tired the day we got home from the hospital that I fell asleep at 7pm, literally in the middle of reading Harry Potter to Primo. I just remember reading and then hearing David say, “What happened to Mommy? She was just reading a minute ago.” And then blissful, sublime quiet. But a few hours later, I heard Primo calling and I ran into his bedroom to find him moaning.

“Oh honey! Are you OK? Does it hurt?”

“Ooooooo nooooo, not the Spanish teacher! Not the Spanish teacher!” Primo moaned, writhing around.

“What are you talking about? Oh my God, do you have a fever? Are you hallucinating?”

He didn’t seem to be hot at all. Just wild-eyed.

“Oooooo, ooooooohhhhh. Now I can’t play quidditch! Quidditch is exercise!”

Reality met fantasy. Primo was Harry Potter and Harry Potter had just had his appendix out. You’re not supposed to do exercise after you have your appendix out. So, no quidditch.

“Are you sleeping? PRIMO! You’re sleeping! You are not Harry Potter!”

“Ohhh. Ooooooh. What is a mumble mumble?”

“What? What is a what?”

“What is a mumble mumble?”

“I can’t hear you. What is a WHAT?”

“Oooooohhhhh. Ooooh nooooo. What is a RAVENCLAW???”

Since I was just about as high as he was, except just from exhaustion, I wasn’t much help. I actually tried to answer his question.

“A raven is a black bird and his claw is his talon. I am Nicole Kear and you are my son. You are not Harry Potter. I repeat you are not Harry Potter.”

Next time the kid gets morphine, I am demanding some as well. It really is only fair.

Dreamers

Primo came home from school last week and told me he’d learned a poem by Langston Hughes. “What is it?” I asked him. He made his face very solemn and then recited:

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow

I’m not gonna lie, I tore up,

Happy Martin Luther King Jr Day, dreamers,

This is why we do it . . .

Yesterday morning, Primo woke up at a glorious 6:45am (that’s considered sleeping in at our place) and he creeped into my bed for our accustomed morning snuggle.

“I had a dream,” he said.

“What was it?” I asked.

“I dreamed that I jumped off a cliff but you saved me. Then I had to save you because you jumped off the cliff to get me.”

My son, that beautiful little boy, already understands what family is – a bunch of people who save each other, not from jumping off the cliff, but AFTER the jumping’s been done.

And that is why all my griping could never make up more than just a tiny smudge, to be washed away by this terrific, awesome, stupefying flood of love and blessedness and gratitude. It is like using the entire Atlantic Ocean to rub out a mark on the counter, made by washable crayon. The smudge doesn’t stand a chance.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

By the time I was my Seconda’s age, my mother had drummed it into my head that there was only one appropriate response to the question “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and that was “Physician.” Not even “doctor,” mind you, since I guess that’s too broad a term, under whose umbrella might fall (God forbid!) getting a Ph.D. No, I was going to be a “physician.” We all see how fruitful my mother’s programming was. I literally cannot tell you the difference between a liver and a kidney, except that you have two kidneys so they probably aren’t as important.

Because I am nothing like my mother (please see “You sound like your mother”), I have never given the children the slightest hint as to what I’d like to see them doing twenty, thirty years down the line. (Except of course, that I expect them to be living next door to me, and that’s a deal-breaker, non-negotiable). In fact, one of my favorite things to hear them talk about is their delightfully half-baked, wildly improbable future employment trajectory. I think my kids would write their generation’s “What Color is Your Parachute?”

So it gives me extreme pleasure to announce to you their most recent career aspirations. And since everything sounds a little more impressive in haiku form, I have masterfully modified their quotes to fit.

Primo, the entrepreneur

When I grow up I
Will open a restaurant
On Pluto -“Moonies.”

Seconda, the hedonist

When I grow up, I
Am going to eat gum and
Have an elephant.

And you, readers? What were your most deeply-felt or hare-brained career aspirations as a kid?