Ever have a dream where you develop a multi-million-dollar idea and you can’t wake up because you need to make it a success?

It started in Joann. I was at the cutting counter, and someone set their kid down to run the store. It was modeled like one of those old fabric shops — aisles of fabric, enormous cutting table in the middle, none of that grasshopper, paper, or sticker nonsense wasting space. All fabric.

For a minute, I thought I’d died in my sleep and this was heaven, until that unleashed troll started drawing curtains, flipping light switches, leaving patrons in the dark. I bit my tongue and fumbled through the checkout. As the cashier handed me my bag, she said, “If you had used a coupon…”

Now I’m mad. I pick the child up and exit the store.

Outside, I find myself holding a friend’s kid in the middle of the county fair. I start pushing through the crowd, looking for the kid’s parent. Its face is wet with snot. Her leg catches another child’s leg as someone carrying it tries to pass me. I notice the kids look a lot alike and ask if she wants this second kid, but she says no.

A man scolds me that my child’s face is wet — it’s disgusting, liable to get chapped and spread disease. I argue that it’s not my kid and press on.

I realize the thing needs nourishment and spot the shortest line in the food alley: teriyaki on a stick. But I can’t get to my purse — and I know I won’t be able to carry food either. As I stand there pondering my options, a custodian pulls the plastic liner out of the trash can behind me. Before he has a chance to put in a new bag, I drop the kid inside and offer him five dollars to watch it while I get food. I insist he doesn’t have to feed it, or touch it — just stand there. He reluctantly agrees.

It hits me that I am a genius. I can start a pit-stop daycare, thirty minutes max, so moms can pee, eat, or whatever.

I’m calling it The Bee-Have.

Patent pending.