Two mornings ago, I woke up in a panic. Not only could I not find my child, but I had spent the last several days of my life being a terrible mother. I had left him places, forgotten to change him, not heard him cry and entered into motherhood completely unprepared. I had no crib, no car seat and no diaper bag. I had nothing but a very large baby and an out-of-control heartbeat.
I was awake for about 5 seconds before I realized that I don't have a child.
Then the pangs began.
Every time that I have let my mind wander over the last two days, it has gone to this nameless dream baby. He was perfect. He was round. He was quiet.
He was fictional.
The desire to procreate had been relatively under control. My every day life was taking so much out of me that the thought of adding anything else that requires attention to the mix was overwhelming. For a week or two, I was completely content. I was independent. Now, I miss my fictional child whom I've never actually held. Oh, and who doesn't exist.
I don't put a lot of stock in dreams. I almost never believe that they really mean anything. It's just the mind replaying the day in some way. This is different somehow. Maybe it was because it felt SO real even though I can't imagine I would ever leave my child unattended for twelve hours. Maybe it was because it was a reminder of the kind of limbo that my brain is in all of the time even if I pretend to ignore it. Maybe it's because there has been a new kind of stress in our lives recently that has put everything in perspective.
Maybe I have no idea why, and all that really matters is that it's bothering me for real. I need to talk to my husband about it so I can come up with some kind of plan to put this craziness to rest. I know the plan might never stick, and it will probably get changed 100 times, but I need something to remind me that we're getting to the future so I should enjoy the now.
Really, all I want is to hold my beautiful, chubby dream baby and skip the rest of this crap.
Sigh. It's hip to be square, kids.