dreaming through my children

Stephen King once wrote a short story, The Mist. For those of you not in the know, it's a story about a government facility that blows up, releasing the "Mist" complete with Giant Creepy Things and Horrendous Pleasedon'tletiteatmes. The story has haunted me since I read it Lo, those many years ago. When I drive into a particularly dense patch of fog? I look to see the windows are up. Silly, but I can't help myself.

And now, They've gone and made it into a movie. And Pete and R. love scary movies. So they watched it last night. I, the smart one, stayed in my room and read a book, The Republic, by none other than my brother-in-law. (Which you should sooooo buy, since it is sooooo good.)

But I digress.

The couple of times I popped out there, Pete was slammed up against her Daddy like she was scared down to her toes (and loving every minute of it). I made sure to tell her that any nightmares should be directed towards her father, not me. He got her into it, he could get her out of it.

So I go to bed, all smug that I'm not the one who watched the scary movie and will be having nice dreams of beaches and what not. Heh, right.

I dreamed I was Pete and the monsters were after me.

Shit.
Serves me right.