In dreams, I walk with you...

“That candy-colored clown they call the sandman

Tiptoes to my room every night

Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper,

‘Go to sleep,

Everything

Is all right…’”

 

During this pregnancy, I have learned some new sleep math.

 

Baby in utero + normally overactive imagination + fluctuations in blood sugar = dreams straight from the mind of David Lynch.

 

For example,  I dreamed last night that I was in attendance at the current Republican national convention in Tampa. All I recall from the sequence was that there were ribbon dancers everywhere, Paul Ryan looked a gosh darn awful lot like a young Kyle MacLachlan, and I remember being intensely, blindingly, bowel-clenchingly angry at every Democrat, ever.  And then I woke up and fell over the cat on the way to the bathroom.  I blame the Democrats for that, too.

 

The most wrenching dream I’ve had thus far seems silly during daylight hours, now that I think about it…  Our baby girl turned into a plasticized kewpie doll and started winking at me.  I ran to Jason with her, and by the time I had reached him in my panicked state, she had turned into a Pez dispenser.  He put her in an empty Valentine’s heart candy box and wrote a letter to her in case she ever “woke up” from being a toy. 

 

Time to cut the dose, methinks.

 

Not all of these REM daytrips have been negative.  I’ve had one oddly enjoyable dream where I opened my mouth to sing and Michael Buble’s voice came out. 

 

Best of all, I dreamed that Mini was a girl before it was confirmed by modern technology.  I kept trying to explain to people that it’s not that I desired to have a daughter more than a son.  It was just that I knew that she was a girl as surely as I knew that I was, er, am.

 

And I dreamed her name, too. 

 

(It’s nice to have a secret.  J)