Photo courtesy of Jon Pitts-Wiley

Are you allowed to be a dad if you're afraid to go to sleep because you're worried about having bad dreams?

The other night, I was having a dream that I believe involved Freddy Krueger—in fact, I'm almost certain it did because The Feath and I had gone to six-dollar movie night at the mall and we saw an ad for the upcoming Nightmare on Elm Street retread. Anyway, I woke up from this dream that involved Freddy and couldn't get back to sleep. Because I was afraid I would have a bad dream in which Freddy Krueger did me in in a most disagreeable fashion.

Sidebar: I shouldn’t watch scary movies, because I have an active imagination, and they'll give me bad dreams. Still, I'm more than mildly intrigued by them and will myself to watch them—during the day of course—and get a weird enjoyment out of gasping and flinching and covering my eyes or ears in horror. Sadly, I feel like I've accomplished some feat of daring upon completion of these movies, knowing I've risked bad dreams and broached the nearly unanswerable question: Have I left enough space between viewing and slumber to allow for other more pleasant things to occupy my dreamscape?

Sometimes, I walk away unscathed. Other times, merely discussing a scary movie will file a bad dream in the "You Know You Shouldn't Have Done That, Right?" file to opened later that night or week.

I won't lie; I felt so alone sitting there in the dark, dozing off, only to be snapped back awake by the thought of being filleted by a child murderer who haunts victims from beyond the grave. Really, I don't know what there is to be afraid of; from what I understand Freddy Krueger doesn't really exist and isn't really poised to kill me as I slumber, but...why fall asleep and risk finding out that I was wrong?

So I sat up doing nothing more than being scared. Who could I turn to? The pregnant lady snoring next to me? I wanted to shake her and tell her I had a bad dream but...I'm a grown man and waking a woman who’s eight months pregnant in order to tell her you had a bad dream just seemed...impolite. So I sat there in bed, alternating between hoping Juice would kick her mother awake on her father's behalf and being prepared for any psychic attack that may come at the hands of Freddy Krueger.

This is yet another reason why I am jealous of my wife. She doesn't have this problem. If she has a bad dream, I have a bad dream or, at least, I am given the fodder for having a bad dream because I've been roused from my slumber to bear witness to her dream which is almost always scary. The Feath has vivid dreams and while I won't make some off-color reference to potential Indian mysticism, I will say her REM cycle is nothing to mess with. Don't believe me? Check out the following which is absolutely true:

INT.—EARLY MORNING—THE BEDROOM

Jon and The Feath are sleeping soundly. Suddenly and without warning, The Feath sits up. Her sudden movement shakes Jon from his slumber. He looks at her. She seems wide awake.

Jon: What's the matter?

The Feath: I'm pregnant.

Jon: (Slowly) How do you know?

The Feath: I had this dream. I was walking down the street toward my job and I had my hands out in front of me, prayer-style. Everyone I passed on the street nodded at me; old, young, this Hasidic in all black tipped his cap to me. So, I'm walking towards this light or aura or something—maybe it was like a spirit or something, I'm not sure—and when I reach it, it says "You have something for me." And I was like yes and showed it my hands which are still kinda cupped or whatever. Then the energy aura thing was like "No, here" and pointed to stomach.

Jon can only arch his eyebrows in disbelief.

The Feath (cont'd): Should I take a pregnancy test?

Jon: I don't know what the hell for. You're totally pregnant.

SCENE

So, yeah; that's what I'm dealing with when I'm stupid enough to ask "You OK?" in the middle of the night. Unless she just has to pee or has to make a concerted effort to negotiate her gut full of human, it's almost always something creepy and spooky and I'm left to just be shook while she goes back to sleep feeling all comforted and protected.

Yup; she goes back to snoring while I worry about the pile of clothes on the chair across the room that may or may not be the serial killer who snuffed out her mom and tied her to a record player causing a warped version of Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely?" to play. If that creeped you out at all, I'm not that sorry for you. This is the fear I live in on a nightly basis. And let's not even talk about the "Go see what that sound was" duties I've had foisted upon me.

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