happiness is over-rated?

Be that as it may, I am entering a phase of remembering my dreams, and some of them are fears and some are wishes. A few days ago, musing perhaps on the fact that J. is growing up, and the little boy and the baby he was are quite gone, as is our previous relationship with nothing new come to replace them just yet, I dreamed that I left him, a small baby who could nonetheless converse quite fluently, on a bus. The empty stroller accused me, and I called out for him, but he was gone.
I know that I have not yet struck a balance or figured out how to be a parent to a nominally full grown boy. He is in so many respects a child still, who despite the patina of sophistication, really has been shielded and cosseted and kept in an Irvine box all his life. His neurological history has no doubt exposed him, it is true, to feeling different and alone, and made it necessary for him to find ways to cope most people don't know about, but he has always been admirably able to do this. He has never complained. I could learn from that.
Last night, I had had a wish dream, in which I came into lots and lots and lots of money. It wasn't exactly me; whoever it was owned a large house and grounds, worth a bunch of cash. As the dream came to an end (when the cats pounced on me, expecting breakfast at 3:30 AM), I was contemplating the pleasant task of whether I wanted to move to Hawaii or somewhere else. Of course, the disparity between life and the dream immediately came clear: Shadow had crapped on the living room rug, and Richard had walked in it barefoot... .