Last night, I watched my sister’s three kids while she and her husband went to a concert in Seattle.
Before she left, she told me that her youngest, six years old, had a nightly ritual that I would likely be asked to take part in before tucking him in.
When he had brushed his teeth and put on his pjs, we got onto his bed, locked pinkies, and each said “I promise not to have any bad dreams,” kissed our thumbs, touched them together, and turned up the covers.
What’s amazing to me is that the consciousness of a six year old boy understands that bad dreams are more than something that just happens to you, but rather something to be thought about, warded off, something that can be prevented by a pinky swear. That’s what it means to understand the universe.