The other day, I witnessed a minor miracle. Peeper took a long afternoon nap.
The nap in question was so long, in fact, that I had to wake her. It was 5 o’clock and I didn’t want to completely throw off her bedtime.
I snuck into her room. She was out cold. Instead of throwing open the blinds, though, I sat down next to the crib and rested my forehead on the slats. I sat quietly and watched her sleep.
She was lying on her stomach with her rump stuck in the air. One cheek was smooshed on the mattress. Her eyelids fluttered and her lips pursed. She was dreaming.
What do babies dream about? Crawling and walking? Pulling books off shelves? Painting the high chair tray with leftovers from lunch?
Or do their dreams take on the bizarre cast that adults’ dreams do?
Perhaps, even, their dreams revisit their nine months in utero. Was Peeper transported back to the warm, comforting time she spent suspended inside me? Could she feel the vibrations of my heart and hear the rushing of my blood?
After a few minutes of my watching her sleep, Peeper’s eyes opened. She blinked a few times then saw my face. She smiled, sat up and stretched her arms overhead. Her dreams forgotten, or perhaps dancing at the edge of her consciousness, she seemed ready for her waking life.