Bad dreams

Anything child-related on the news lately has made me an emotional wreck. First, there were the Chelsea King and Amber Dubois cases. Then I read about a mother poisoning her 3-year old child for attention from her boyfriend. After that, was the nanny who was using the child she watched as a punching bag. Finally, my Tia gave me a good story--a nanny had been watching the child for 2 months and his room went up in flames. She walked into his room barefoot to save the young boy. She said she didn't even feel a thing when she was doing it, although now, she is covered with third degree burns.
All of these stories have been infiltrating my dreams; you know the ones where you wake up, hoping when you fall back to sleep, you'll dream of something happier? But then when you finally drift off again, you pick up at the horrific moment you left off. This was me all night last night. Except it was my baby who was abducted. Long story short, I woke up this morning understanding (for only a very brief moment, obviously not comparable in the least to the pain these parents must feel) the anguish, fear, and anger that must run through them every single day that their baby is gone. Thankfully, the last time I woke up this morning, instead of hearing silence, I heard the bubbly squeals of my son in the other room. I got up early, went into his room, and picked him up. I hugged him, gave him a kiss, and whispered into his ear, "Good morning, I love you." He looked at me quizzically and said, "Huuh?" (I'm just going to tell myself that was his way of saying ditto). Then the moment was over and we made pancakes. It's been a good morning.