I dreamt last night that I was a father. My 22-year-old son (I knew I had at least one child) wanted something that I could not give him. The argument screamed over the protests of my wife, Clare. She stood nearby, her face indignant and injured. My son continued to assert that my backward principles stood in the way of my understanding him. I was old in the dream.

But in my mind within the scenario (not the third-person one that passively watched), I would not lose this fight. I decided that my son was misguided and this was my opportunity to teach him something. Ironic, actually, how stubbornly I was going to defend my side, not even considering what my grown son was saying; exactly what he was saying. And I knew that my son would respect what I would say in the same subconsciously conscious of our relationship way that I would disregard his opinion on the subject.

And later at home, even knowing that he disagreed, he would wrestle himself over whether he should trust in his father’s experience and wisdom or believe what seemed more right in his own mind.

And I was proud. My son respected me, he loved me, and he valued me as his father. I was proud that he listened, and decided ultimately that he disagreed. I was proud of him and I was proud of me.

This dream was way better than the one where I kept dying over and over again in World of Warcraft.