I was alone in the car with my boys atop a giant plateau. The road, which was really only a track, arced to the left and began to descend the plateau on the spine of a mountain.
On either side of the rocky, narrow spine were precipitous slopes. A wrong turn would send us crashing hundreds of feet down the steep incline.
I’ve had driving dreams before, and they are almost always stressful. I am alone with the boys (no Dutch around to lend to hand); we are in a desolate wilderness area. Steep cliffs. Thick woods. Rocky ledges. Huge lakes. Often, night is falling.
Driving in my non-dream life is actually rather nice. It’s one time when everybody is strapped in and generally happy that we are en route to someplace different.
Unless Jack has a fit and starts throwing feet. He did this recently and I had to move him to the front passenger seat to protect his brothers from his attacks. When we were in the intersection by the Lehi Roller Mills, he started kicking me and pushed the gearshift into neutral.
Dude. Stop kicking my car. And the people in it.
Driving becomes stress-driving when Jack goes on the warpath.
Sleeping becomes stress-dreaming when I dream of wild off-road driving situations with a carload of kids.
It’s a manifestation of my subconscious, telling me I have a good deal of anxiety about navigating the wilderness of special-needs parenting.
And it’s spot-on.