The other night was a rough one for the boys. It seemed like one or the other of them was waking us up every hour, scared by a nightmare. I have no idea why. We hadn’t watched any scary movies or read any scary books. There was no rain or thunder to scare them.

It was just a tough night.

Right around 4:30 am, N (the three year old) ran into our room, breathing hard. We woke up, bleary. “What’s wrong?”

“I had a mean dream!” he panted, climbing on to our bed.

My head dropped back to the pillow. “Oh yeah? What was it about?”

“A gorilla!”

“A gorilla?”

“Yeah, a mean gorilla. He was climbing C’s bed! He was going to get him!”

The two boys sleep in the same room. Apparently, the little guy had thought he saw a gorilla climbing his brother’s bed. “Wow, that’s pretty scary.” I said.

“Yeah, but it was only his blanket.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. When I tackled it. It was only his blanket.”

“You tackled it?”

“Yeah, he said, yawning. It was only his blanket. Isn’t that crazy?”

He put his head down on the pillow next to mine. I, however, was now wide awake. What kind of a three year old wakes up in the middle of the night, sees a mean gorilla – and tackles it? 

Hell, if I wake up and see a mean gorilla, I’m waking up my wife and sending her after it.

I might even suggest she turn on the light first…