Sweet Dreams

Sweet Dreams 

Mornings are my favorite time. Not because my dog licks my face to wake me up. And not because of the bowl of Cheerios with lots of sugar. It's because I survived another night. Now that the sun is out, everything is back to normal. Mom is back to normal. So is grandma, and I'm safe... for now. It's when the sun goes down that I don't like because everything changes. The trees in the yard turn into skeletons, waving their bony branches at me, reaching out to grab me. And monsters hide in the bushes, waiting for me to get closer. Terrible things. Giant bugs with ugly faces. Birds that eat people. Scorpions. I know they're real because I've seen pictures of them. And my dog starts growling and barking at things that I can't see. I think she's guarding us from wild animals. 

Even the stars are scary. They make me think of Martians coming down and turning us into robots because that's what Martians do. They build tunnels under the beach, and they suck you in. I saw it on the television. 

The hallway to my bedroom is dark and cold. It's a mile to the living room, but I can still hear mom and grandma mumbling. They talk about grown-up stuff. Words that make no sense to me. They must be important grown-up words.  

There are some things good about nighttime. Dessert happens at night. I like taking tubbies with my dinosaurs. Sometimes we play games after supper. I like to play checkers. I even like the sparkling dust fairies that fly around my bedroom when a car drives by. Laying on the couch watching the television is fun. Especially Bozo the Clown. Except Bozo is on in the daytime. Looking at Dr. Seuss books. Putting Bowser to bed. Putting on my PJs. Sometimes, my dad calls to wish me sweet dreams. Not very often, though. 

Mom always reads to me and tucks me in. She always kisses me on the forehead. 

But it's all a lie because she changes when she goes back into the living room. So does grandma. And they start talking about me. 

I know because I can hear them saying my name. Sometimes, a lot.   

"I'm taking Jake to the doctor tomorrow. His tonsils are swollen and red." 

"I'm taking Jake to the doctor, mumble mumble, they're going to chop off his head."                                                                        

"Jake drew the cutest picture today of Grandpa's cat. He is a natural-born artist, I think."  

'Jake drew the stupidest picture, mumble mumble brat. He is a terrible artist, he stinks, mumble, mumble.'  

"Jake wants to be a baseball pitcher."   

'Jake's, mumble gonna be a bald ditch digger, muffled laughter.' 

"Goodnight meaty... I mean, Sweetie! Grandma and I are right here in the kitchen if you need anything!"    

 "Wat doing?" 

"Grandma is stoking the fire, and I'm sharpening the carving knives." 

"Wat Foe?" 

"Mother and I are going to have a midnight snack." 

"Cookies?" 

"No, not cookies... you... I mean, you go to sleep now." 

"I wan goodie too." 

"Don't you worry, Honey Pie, you're invited. Now go to sleep." 

"Weave doe open!"

"I'll leave it halfway open, OK?" 

She does the same thing every night. She leaves me in here alone with my terrors. When she leaves the closet doors open, my mom's white meat wrapper smocks, hanging in a row, turn into ghosts. And if I look at them too long, they start squirming, trying to get off their hangers.  

So I have to turn away and not look before they escape and get me. But when I turn away, the invisible rhinoceros comes out and sticks its pointy horn at me.  

But I can't turn around to look because the man with the melted face will be in the window, and it will all be real.   

But the worst thing of all is the toad that sits at the foot of my bed, watching me. Waiting. All shiny and sticky. His wet throat puffing in and out, so big I think it's going to pop. And he can see me even with his eyes closed. He can see me when he's sleeping if he ever sleeps. 

 "Croak!" He keeps telling me. 

His name is Mr. Quiet. 

I don't know how these things happen. I just know they do. Mom must know bad things are happening in here. How could she not?   

Maybe when you grow up, you forget about Magical Things.  

She always tries to shut the door. I know why... 'cause she's a witch. A mean, ugly witch. So's grandma.  

They think I don't know, but I do. I know they're gonna cook me and eat me when I fall asleep. That's what witches do; they eat kids for supper.  

I can hear 'em in the living room. Dirty, Ugly, Smelly Witches. They can't decide whether to make a delicious Jake stew or roast me like a pig.  

"Shall we try a little more Cyan Pepper once he's crispy, Mother? Perhaps a pinch of Milk Weed powder?"" 

 "Now, Now, Deary! Let's be frugal with our use of spice! We mustn't spoil the little brat's natural flavor!"  

 "You are so wise, Mother...as always! I'll sharpen the pointy end of the spit. You relax and finish your Hemlock Tea!" 

" CacKLe CackLE!!"  

It sounds like they've chosen BBQ.  

I've tried to catch them in the act. I'll sneak down the hall and peek around the corner.                                                                              

But they always know when I'm coming and turn back into Mommy and Grandma because they're Magical Witches.  

"Go back to bed, Sweetie! I'll check on you in a minute!" 

“Kay. doan kwose doe.”  

"Don't worry, deliciou…I mean, dearest one… I'll eat…I mean, see you in the morning."  

'I might be only two, but you aren't fooling me, you UgLy, SmElly, Old WiTch!'  

So I'm gonna stay wake! I'm not... gonna... fall... asweep..."  

"OK, OK, Bowser... stop licking me. I getting up now." 

"Good morning, Sweetie! What do you want for breakfast?"  

"Cheerios!"