I dream that grandma G. is alive and I’m at her place teaching her how to print from a computer. Then I dream that I’m babysitting a blond toddler, a butterfly gets in the room and she grabs it with her pudgy little hands, almost killing it. I also inevitable dream that it’s the first day of school and I don’t want to go, so many years have passed, all my classmates have grown up and moved on, and I’m still here.
Tag: babysitting
Happy Summer!
I dream that I’m looking after a neighbor’s adorable baby girl, she starts throwing up and I call a doctor. I go out for a bit she’s dead and they’re holding her wake.
Then I dream that we’re about to sit at Christmas dinner with the whole family in our mountain house, I also invited a few friends, four girls from the early 1900s who are studying to become career women, lawyers, scientists etc. The table is outside and it’s night, a bunch of people arrive singing carols. My late Grandpa P. gets up and throws a golden key at the crowd, a man catches it and demands to sleep with me. I tell him to go to hell. We all go home on a rented bus, I’m distraught because I can’t find my jacket.
Adventures in (fake) Baby Sitting
I need to leave the house in a hurry: I signed up for some classes and I’m late, but I keep forgetting something and having to come back. At one point I realize I even forgot my underwear, and there’s even a pretty girl laughing at me. My building is a maze (that’s another recurring dream of mine) and I can’t find my way back.
Eventually I’m ready and running through my town; the streets are more colorful somehow, people are wearing summer clothes and palm trees are greener, I feel like I’m in California. There’s a giant papier-maché head peeking out from a roof, it’s bright pink and I want to take a picture of it. But I’m late! And what’s worse, I suddenly remember I need to go to work, so I have no choice but text an excuse to my classes’ group chat. They all rage against my job, they say my boss is overworking me and paying too little.
Turns out I’m a baby sitter, my charge is a little boy named Marcus, son of a rich, somewhat bossy couple. I show his mother a painting on my notebook, tell her Marcus made it. She’s skeptical though, so I have to admit it’s actually by my friend F. But Marcus helped!
DECADE DREAM JOURNAL 