The Dreaded Backfire

Bedtime was drawing near, and my eldest and I were talking about the nightmares he had been having. Whatever horrors were visiting my little boy, they were frightening enough to make him cry out in the middle of the night, to shake him from his sleep, and send him running to our bedside pleading for sanctuary. This had been going on for about a week.

My wife had read somewhere that the urge to pee while sleeping can sometimes translate into bad dreams in little kids. We have no idea if it’s true and we did zero research to find out, but seeing as how the boy, like his father, fancies a little drinky drinky before hitting the hay, it seemed a likely enough culprit. She suggested that perhaps he lay off the liquid so close to bed so that maybe his nightmares would go away. To my surprise, he latched on to this idea like a life preserver, like he would do anything to make the bad dreams stop. It was only then that I realized just how much of an impact they were having. So while I helped him into his pajamas, we talked.

“Do you remember what happens in your dreams?”

He nodded to the affirmative.

“Is it a monster?”

“It’s a dinosaur” he said in a low voice. “In the closet. He comes out and he chases me.”

“Well, son, you’re in luck because there is no dinosaur in your closet.”

“Not my closet. The one upstairs.”

I assured him there was no dinosaur in any of the upstairs closets.

“No, there is. I’ll show you.”

And so, pajama-clad and claim-certain, he led me out of his room and up the stairs. But instead of proceeding on to one of the other bedrooms like I expected, he took me through the living room, past the kitchen, and through the dining room where he stopped and pointed to a small closet. The water heater closet. The closet that we told him to stay out of months ago. Because it housed a dinosaur.

Um. Oops.

I guess this is the part where I learn some kind of lesson about being more honest with my kids and not messing with their heads for my own amusement. Like the other night when my youngest grabbed a peeler out of the dishwasher and sliced his finger open, and I snatched a chunk of carrot peel off the floor and told my four year old it was a piece of his little brother's finger. Or how we told them that the dog sings when nobody's home. Who knows? He just might.Or that whole Santa Claus thing. These aren't just fibs for fun. They serve a purpose. Don't mess with the water heater. Don't play with sharp things. Don't doubt the dog's singing abilities. Go to bed on Christmas Eve. Messages that seem to get through better when there's a story to go along with them. Except stories have a way of taking on a life of their own in the mind of their audience. Don't believe me? Go google some fan fiction.

I opened the closet and showed him the water heater, and pointed out the complete absence of a dinosaur. He hasn't had any nightmares since then, but the dinosaur was worrying him again before bed last night. So again we talked.

"There's no dinosaur in the closet, remember?"

"Because the man came and put in the hot water and took the dinosaur away?"

"I'm not so sure there was ever a dinosaur in there in the first place. I'm sorry I ever told you there was."

But he insisted. "The man came and put in the hot water and he took the dinosaur away and put him in a cage."

"Maybe he took him someplace where he could run free?"

I don't know if that little talk completely allayed his fears, but he rolled over and went to bed. I closed his door, walked upstairs, and hoped that he wouldn't remember this moment for the rest of his life as the night he realized his dad caused him nightmares.