I talk in my sleep. A lot, apparently. Frank likes to prompt me and have long ridiculous conversations that he then records in a journal and endlessly teases me about. According to the journal, I have recurring nightmares about scrubbing bubbles. You know, the Dow chemical cartoon kind.
The other night I was rocking Jameson in his room about an hour after Sophie had gone to sleep, and I heard her kicking the wall between us. Light at first, then like an elephant dancing on the wall, then it stopped. After I settled Jameson in his crib, I snuck into her room. She was deep asleep, but her head was at the foot of the bed, one of her feet was on her pillow, and the other one was kicked up against the wall. I did a quick ninja move to flip her around and her eyes popped open. In a very distressed voice, she asked, "Are we out of eggs?!" "No, honey, we have a fridge full of eggs." "Oh...(smile breaks across her face), I'm a silly woo." And then she was out again.