Dream a little dream

I have a long history of dream-bashing.  My visionary husband christened me a Dream Basher during the early years of our marriage.  I’m good at it.

If you have a dream, I can tell you a thousand different reasons it will fail.  I can pinpoint a hundred flaws in your planning and a dozen reasons why there is no hope.  I can ask ten questions about the specific execution of the dream until you realize that your dream might as well be executed.  Off with its head.

My 13-year old daughter said, “Mom!  Stop killing my dream!  I’d rather have fake hope!”

That’s the difference between us.  I don’t want false hope.  I don’t want to coddle a dream that’s destined to die. “Dream-bashing” is nothing more than analyzing and dissecting and questioning.  And that’s a good thing, I think.

But it’s come to my attention that when I think I’m being helpful, my questions and conversation can feel more like a sledgehammer.  So I’m trying to reel it back.

I don’t want to be remembered as the critical mom who killed every dream.

So, fake hope it is.