Madison, Witches, and The Grand Onion

When you dream, what do you dream about?
Do you dream about music or mathematics, or planets to far for the eye?
Do you dream about Jesus or quantum mechanics, or angels that sing lullabies?
~ What do you Dream About, The Bare Naked Ladies

One of my most favorite things to do is to watch my children sleep. It is the most peaceful thing on this earth. They are every bit as dynamic when they are sleeping as they are when they are awake, but for Madison, especially, it is the most still she ever is. I often wonder what they are dreaming about. What has them smiling in their sleep? What has them crinkle their nose? What makes them furrow their brow? The other night, I heard Madison screaming. I ran to her room, half asleep, and triping over the 50 odd items that she took to bed with her that night, and since then, had fallen off one by one on the floor by her bed. I realized that she was having a nightmare. I picked her up, hugged her until she stopped screaming, and then quietly laid her back down. She sat straight up, opened her eyes, and said "Mommy, its a witch." I cuddled her and said "There is no Witch baby", and she said "Yes, she is right dere (we are still working on our TH sounds, so in translation, that was really 'right there')" I said "No baby, there is no Witch here" and she said "Yes mommy, dere is and she try and take Ya Ya away" (Ya Ya is Delaney).
I was at a loss for words. I just sat there and hugged her, until she stopped shaking, and was quietly, rhythmically breathing in a way that you know it is okay to put her down. That she is really asleep. I walked back to my room and thought "She's back."

I first remember dreaming about the Grand Onion when I was 4 years old. My parents, my brother and I lived on the Post Road in Greenwich, Connecticut. It was a main road, with a small shopping center and restaurant across the street. One of the grocery stores we shopped at was called the Grand Union, but my father and I joked that it was really the Grand Onion.
Things were pretty tense in my house at this time, and one night I feel asleep, and had a terrible dream that this old witch, dressed in black (of course, she is a witch after all) came into our house, up the stairs, and walked my father out of the house. I would wake up as they were walking past my bedroom door, and scream for her to let him go. She would walk him out of the house by the backdoor, and up the street towards the Grand Union. He never looked back. He just followed her. I woke up to my mom holding me, telling me that it would all be okay.

A few months went by, and again, the Grand Onion came to our house. This time, she led my mom past my bedroom. I started screaming for her to let my mom go. I followed them, screaming, as I watched her walk her out the back door, and up the street, the same way she had my father. I again awoke to my mother holding me, telling me that it would all be okay.

I did not hear from the Grand Onion again...not for a few years. We had moved to another house in Greenwich, and I figured, she didn't know where I was...after all, we now shopped at the A&P. She had no reason to visit anymore. A few months after moving to our new house, she visited again. This time, she came for my brother. She walked him past my room, down the stairs, and out the back door. This time I followed her. Neither one of them looked back. He just followed her, walking down the Post Road in his tighty whities (after all, it was the summer time, and apparently that is what he wore to bed in the 1980's. ) They vanished. Disappeared into the night. I again woke up to my mother telling me to stop screaming. That everything would be all right. 2 weeks later, my parents informed us that they were getting a divorce. That my dad and my brother would be staying in the house, and that my mom and I would be moving out.

I did not dream about the Grand Onion again. She disappeared from my dreams, and I was glad to have her not visit anymore. Until June of 1999. I had just finished my first year of graduate school. I was packing my things to visit my parents for a few weeks. I was flying to the Vineyard to meet my mom and Donald, and then would be going over to New York to see my dad. I fell asleep reminding myself that tomorrow was Father's Day, and I needed to make sure I called my Dad first thing in the morning. That is when I saw her. She was unmistakable in her long black dress as she walked down the hallway of that house in Greenwich we had lived in 20 years before. She took my father by the hand, walked him down the stairs, and out the back door. I chased them out the door and up the street until they disappeared. I awoke to my phone ringing in my dorm room. It was my mother. "Heather, I need to talk to you" she said. "Your father is sick."
The Grand Onion made one last visit. It was April 13, 2000. My dad was not doing well. Hospice had been called in to make him comfortable, and they were pretty sure that he would not make it through the night. A peace treaty had been signed between myself and my father's wife, and I had decided to spend the night, at the foot of his bed, to be there if ever he needed me. I finally dozed off, and there she was, walking him past that same bedroom I had when I was 4. Down those same stairs, out that same back door, and up that same familiar stretch of the Post Road. This time, as in times past, I followed them, however this time, silently. I did not scream to bring him back. I simply followed for as long as I could...and then let him go.

I do not know if there are any studies that have been conducted on dreams and genetics, but if there is a connection, I hope Madison inherits dreams of wild-flowers and long days on the beach. While that last one for Madison is her own kind of nightmare, my hopes for her, is that it forever be her worst.

A Love of Music, A Letter to God,
and a Realization...Sensitivity is Heredity

A few days ago, I was going through some of Delaney's papers to file away. I learned from one of my smart, and extremely organized aunts, that when her two girls were going through school, in order to keep their papers organized, she devoted a filing cabinet drawer to each of them. This way, if they ever needed to refer back to something, they would always know where it was. I started doing this for Delaney, except in Rubbermaid file boxes. I was going through her preschool folder when I happened upon her handwriting book. It was a book they used to practice writing their numbers and letters. In the back she had written her first letter. It was to God, and being as he is extremely busy, she got right to the point. She simply said:

"Dear God,
Thank you for the beautiful music.
Love,
Delaney."

Now, Delaney loves a lot of things. She loves Boston Cream Donuts. She loves ballet, American Girl and playing hockey with her dad. But there is nothing Delaney loves more than listening to music. She has since she was in the womb. Music always seemed to have a calming influence over her, whether it was me singing to her (which is usually as calming as nails on a chalk board), or her falling asleep to the same song every night. A fun, up-beat song will have her dancing through the house. She loves everything from Broadway musicals (her current favorite is Popular and Dancing Through Life from Wicked), to John Lennon and Jimmy Buffet (obviously due to the ridiculous amount her parents play the two).

My almost 7 year old daughter is perhaps the most sensitive human being on the planet. She feels things to the core of her being. There is no guessing with Delaney. You know the minute there is something wrong. Her smile dissipates as quickly as the tears well in her crystal blue eyes. Many things can cause this to happen. A bug, ("one of God's creatures" as she refers to them), being crushed; a sad scene in a movie; a friend who is sad; However, nothing illustrates this point more than her reaction to music. Nothing can reduce her to tears faster than a sad song on the radio.

I remember when she was a baby, and we were trying to teach her to fall asleep on her own. She had a glow-worm that would play Brahms' Lullaby. She would cry the second it would start playing. I attributed it to the fact that she wanted to be held a little longer, or didn't want us to leave the room. When she was almost 2, she received the Fisher Price, Little People's doll house. She would cry every time we played with it. It took me a few times to realize that the crib in the house would play the same song. It immediately reduced her to tears. If we didn't touch the crib, she loved it. The second the song played, the tears fell.

I did not see this reaction from her again for a while. It was pretty easy to steer clear of Brahm's lullaby. It isn't frequently on the radio, and is not a track on any of the CD's we own, nor is it on any of our playlists for any of the family iPods. One day, on a drive to the store, we were listening to our iPod. I had recently created a playlist for Delaney that included her favorite songs, as well as some that reminded me of her. Songs such as "Daughter" by Loudon Wainright III, were mixed in with Hot Chocolate from the Polar Express, and Carole King's rendition of the Itsy Bitsy Spider. "I Loved Her First", by Heartland came on, and the back seat was silent. I looked back, and tears were streaming down her face. "Tttttuuuurrrnnnnn iiiiitttttt offfffffffffffff! Puuuuullllllleeeeeeaaassseeee" she blubbered through her tears. I was shocked by the reaction to this song. She had never heard it before. She could not possibly comprehend what the song was about. What was it about this particular song that made her upset? Maybe it was just a mood.

I still remember the night I first heard the song "I Loved Her First" by Heartland. I literally had to pull over to the side of the road, my vision blurred by the tears that were uncontrollably streaming down my face. I have always been a sucker for songs about fathers and daughters, and this one is no exception. It is perhaps the sweetest song ever written about the love of a father for his daughter. I was sure that I was not the only woman on the planet that had this reaction to that particular song. I envisioned my husband swaying to this song with his baby girl on the day she got married, sweetly singing the lyrics so only she could hear them, and her remembering the days they shared as she was growing up, and finally realizing that she indeed is the center of his universe. I thought perhaps she would tear up as well. If she was anything like me, maybe a bit uncontrollable. I never, in a million years believed she would have this reaction before even beginning Kindergarten.

A few weeks later, her playlist had cycled through, and the song came on again. This time, she was in the middle of a conversation, and again, she immediately started crying.
"Tttttuuuurrrnnnnn iiiiitttttt offfffffffffffff! Puuuuullllllleeeeeeaaassseeee" came blubbering from the back seat. This was astounding to me. Again, she had only listened to a few bars of the beginning of the song. How is it that she knew it was such an emotional song?
I asked the director of fine arts at my school if he had ever seen a reaction to music like that. He explained that he had, from adults, but never from a child. He seemed to think that perhaps she had a connection with music. That her emotional connection was to the instrumental arrangement in a particular song, rather than the emotion from the lyrics.
I thought "hmmmm....perhaps...or maybe she is just as sensitive as her mom."

So from her father, Delaney gets her eyes, her athleticism, her ability to spell, and her love of John Lennon. From me she gets her math ability, her love of reading, and her ability to cry at the drop of a hat! Gotta love genetics!