Some mornings she gets up on her own, but this was one of those mornings that I had to get Poppy out of bed. Today she was awake, curled up under her sheet.

“Mommy,” she said, “I don’t feel so well,” and I wondered how long she’d been awake there, waiting for me.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“The ants,” she said. “The ants keep hurting me.”

I wasn’t too alarmed about the ants. Had they been real ants, I would’ve heard her screaming. The girl doesn’t like bugs.

“What ants?” I asked.

“The black ants,” she said, “under my pillow.”

“Show me,” I said, sitting down on the bed. She lifted her head and looked at the pillow.

“Oh,” she said. She brightened. “There aren’t any ants!”

“Did you have a bad dream, baby?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “The ants were hurting me and they wouldn’t stop hurting me.”

I gave her a hug and told her, “The next time you have a yucky dream, you just tell the yucky part to go home and leave you alone.”

“And then the ants will go back to their mommies and daddies and grandmas and grandpas,” she said.

“That’s right. And then you can go back to your good sleep,” I said.

I wish I could make it so that she only has sweet dreams. This parenting thing can be hard on your heart.