Little man's nightmare

I always look forward to quiet evenings at home. After the kids are in bed, calmness descends on the house as my wife and I enjoy an all-too-brief respite from the craziness of the day.

Last night was no different. We were in the living room. My wife was reading and I was rearranging words on my laptop. As the clock struck our almost-bedtime, we heard stirring from upstairs. As we have done countless times since we became parents, we looked at each other and wondered who it was, and why.

Little feet pattered their way down the stairs. It was our youngest, clutching his blanket, and he didn't look happy. He wasn't crying, but his face was pained.

He: "I can't sleep. I had a bad nightmare and it woke me up."

The last words weren't out of his mouth before he buried himself in my wife's arms.

We: "What did you dream about?"
He: "I dreamed that I died."

After my wife and I recovered from the kick in the abdomen that hearing something like this from a five-year-old can deliver, we scrambled to say the right thing to him.

Although we don't actively encourage them to sleep in our bed - not even the world's best sleeper would be able to handle it next to little people who flip themselves over almost constantly and steal the blankets - we felt an exception was in order this time.

So we trooped upstairs and tucked him in between us. Many hugs, kisses and calming words were shared. He drifted off to sleep in minutes and woke up the next morning with his usual cheery face.

Parenthood...