When I was younger, I remember sitting around the breakfast table eating cold cereal (our own special mix) almost every morning. It was a nice time, usually. I liked, and continue to enjoy, reading while eating breakfast, either the newspaper, or the cereal box; sitting quietly with the only sound that of “crunch, crunch.” But sometimes, my quiet time was interrupted by one of my sibling’s desire to tell me what he or she dreamed about. A most odious subject for me to endure. He or she would go on and on about all the details of what happened, details, etc., throughly enjoying reliving the dream and the details, and unaware that I was in agony at hearing about it all. I absolutely hated it. And I still hate hearing details about someone else’s dreams. If you want to divulge all your brains to me, please leave a little to the imagination. Please just tell me the 3 main points or characters, such as “I dreamt about Sasha, or Billy Bob, or a roller coaster.” Please! No details. I am not interested. This is perhaps one reason I don’t enjoy reading as I should. Too much detail, too little patience on my part. Plus, the less you tell, the more interesting it seems. If you tell it all, then it truly becomes drab.
Anyway, I figure this is why I am blessed with a child who loves to tell me all about his dreams, almost every day. Even worse than while sitting a the breakfast table, this boy likes to wake up very early, and come into my bed and tell me all about whatever while I am still trying to maintain some sort of unconsciousness. It drives me nuts. Good for him that I am still half asleep otherwise I might become irate and nasty with him. Another example that we get what we deserve.