My daughter had her first dream.
She told me so.
It involved a heart and a cloud and toys and her favourite cousin.
She told me it was a very important dream.
And that she’d never had one before.
And I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have these firsts with her.
These tiny, insignificant firsts.
These firsts that mean everything to her.
And to me.
I can’t remember my first dream.
God knows what it was about, but I wager that it also involved toys and, perhaps, my sister.
But I know I will always remember my daughter’s first dream.
How absolutely precious is that?
She was astonished that it wasn’t real.
She told me it came to her while she was sleeping and when she woke up, it was gone.
“It was an actual dream, mommy. A real actual dream.“
Her eyes were wide with amazement and I could hear the delight in her voice.
It’s a special blessing to be a parent.
To experience the joy and wonderment in small, ordinary details.
Details that we easily overlook and disregard.
Because as an adult, a dream is just a dream.
But as a child, a dream is a miracle.
A source of endless delight.
And I get to share it with her.
Cherish it with her.
Live it with her.
And that is completely magical.
If you liked this, you might also like: The World Is A Dangerous Place and My Mischievous Child.
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