My mirage

I woke up this morning before the sun was up, so our bedroom was mostly dark, except for the soft blue glow coming from Mike's atomic clock.

We spent all day Saturday changing our bedroom around, so this morning I was a little disoriented when I woke up - the slight shadows being cast across our room looked different, even though they were the same shadows I've seen most every morning for nearly three years.

Since it was still dark AND a Sunday morning, I rolled over with the intent of drifting back to sleep. As I flipped over to face the outside of the bed, my heart skipped a beat.

In my foggy-brained state, I mistook our laundry hamper for a baby bassinet - or more precisely, Ryan's bassinet.

For a split-second, I really thought I was looking at my baby's bassinet, neatly positioned next to my side of the bed - the place I had planned on after his birth - and that he was sound asleep in it. Once I cleared the cobwebs from my brain enough to know that it was our hamper and not a bassinet, I realized I was the victim of a nasty form of a mirage. I pouted, grumbled an expletive, and turned my back away from the outside of the bed.

I suppose "seeing" Ryan's bassinet was my version of a parched man's oasis: I wanted to see and believe it so badly that I almost had myself convinced it was real, when in actuality it was my eyes and brain playing tricks on me.

Haven't I been subjected to enough nasty tricks? Why do the cosmic gods feel the need to pile one more on?

I hope they got a good, hearty laugh at my expense with their latest prank.