LOS ANGELES — Our 5-year-old wakes up, stumbles to the bathroom where his mother is getting dressed and says, “Mommy, you missed a good dream.”

He thinks we all share the same dream, like a TV show, like a Hallmark movie. I would trade my car for one night of his dreams. To rollick in the wonderland that exists between his flimsy ears.

“This is the funny part, so don’t laugh -.” he says, starting to explain the dream.

What a September, what a dream. Doesn’t this month seem like it’s been six weeks long? We’ve spent much of it watching Ben S. Bernanke stand at the lectern wearing that thousand-mile stare.

Mr. Bernanke might be a fine man, but his countenance worries me. Guys like me can have slumping shoulders and thousand-mile stares. But not pinhead plutocrats with their fingers on the nation’s floor safe.

“We need to keep an eye on this,” I say.

“On what?” Posh asks.

“The economy,” I say.

“OK, Greenspan,” she says.

Posh is disappointed in the events of the last few weeks. She has tried to spend our country back toward prosperity and failed, though it hasn’t dimmed her enthusiasm for shopping malls and expensive boutiques.

I call it Posh-onomics. It’s based on the idea that a $280 pair of shoes helps everyone, not just her. If she’d pay the cell bill, the Dow would probably shoot up 500 points.

Our household budget has been tested like never before. The other day, the “check engine” light came on again in the minivan. Stinkin’ car is only 11 years old. Can’t the Japanese make anything?

A day later, the government turned down our bailout request. I had assured Treasury officials that, were they looking to purchase billions and billions in bad debt, they could just write me a big fat check right here.

They declined, so now our kitchen has begun to resemble the control room in “The China Syndrome,” when all the lights are blinking and no one knows for sure what’s going to happen next.

“Who’s Fannie Mae?” asks one of the kids.

“Remember ‘Petticoat Junction’?” I ask.

“No.”

“Well, Fannie Mae was the redhead,” I explain.

How she ended up in the mortgage business, I’ll never know. In America, if the right person takes a liking to you, you can emerge from total obscurity to a position of influence.

Good thing I’m not a worrier. Here’s an idea: Find me the man or woman who can explain what went wrong, and let’s elect him or her our next leader right now.

Right now, I’m leaning toward my buddy Alan, who did a good job explaining this mess at one of those juiced-up soirees we’re always attending, like it or not.

Wine glass in hand, Alan painted a picture of greed and suffering worthy of a miniseries. It was like “Roots” in reverse, where we all end up as slaves.

“Get ready for 50 percent tax rates,” Alan warned, and the three guys standing around him all got that thousand-mile, Bernanke stare.

I’m ready. Bring on that big crushing $700,000,000,000,000,

000,000,000,000,000 debt. I don’t mind paying through the nose because a few rich companies overextended themselves in an effort to satisfy rich foreign investors. Besides, I’ve developed an economic plan of my own.

First, I’ve been eating lots and lots of eggs, in hopes of storing up protein while protein is still available.

Second, on Monday morning, I plan to sell off the naming rights to our house.

It’s a sprawling villa set in the foothills of Los Angeles. It was once a Medieval Times, till the health department closed it down because we mixed the silverware with the swords. In damp weather, you can still smell the horses.

Since then, we have raised four kids in this villa, along with two dogs, a cat, several hamsters and an opossum or two.

What corporation wouldn’t want its name across our roof? A huge telecom company would be a great fit, but we’ll settle for something dignified, as well.

I’ll also throw in the 5-year-old, who prefaces stories with, “This is the funny part, so don’t laugh.”

But laugh anyway. Really, what else you gonna do?

Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.