I am thick in the throes of a complicated dream when the air raid sirens start. They don’t make sense, even in the nonsensical realm of dreaming.
They are loud enough, though, that they break through the barrier between sleeping and waking, and I realize that they are real. And they are coming from my house. And they are accompanied by bright, intermittently flashing lights.
I am instantly in motion, and Matt is right next to me, and we’re dashing from our warm bed to the children–the noise and the light is coming from one of their rooms. I am in a silent panic.
We burst into B’s room. That’s where the sirens are coming from.
And she is lying in her bed, struggling to turn off the alarm on her iTouch. It’s an alarm and she set it, but she didn’t realize how loud it was and she doesn’t really know how to turn it off so she’s swiping and hitting buttons and finally it stops. Sorry, she says, I didn’t mean to set it like that.
And I laugh, despite the acid taste of fear in my mouth and my elevated heart rate, and say it’s the most effective alarm clock we’ve ever had, as 5/6 of the people in our family are now awake and standing in her room.
Go back to sleep, I say, and walk back to my own room, where I glance at the alarm clock on Matt’s bureau to see how many hours of sleep I have left.
It’s 6:30 AM. Not 3 AM, which is what time it feels like.
We’re up for the day, I realize. I am instantly and irrationally irate. In denial, I lay back down for 10 minutes, mostly out of spite, because I certainly can’t fall right back to sleep after that episode.
So that’s how my day started–in a dead panic, followed by utter disappointment and rage that I didn’t get to go back to sleep.
How about yours?