July 31, 2008 by Marj Hatzell
I don’t know what I am smoking (or eating or drinking) before I go to bed, but DAY-UM! Those dreams are funky. And I ain’t talking about the hot-steamy dreams I get when I am taking the back medicine. I’m talking about poo-all-over-the-place dreams (oh wait, that one is real), me in school and trying to pass off blog entries as well-written papers (HAHAHAHAHA!!!!), traveling for days in the car and ending up in Nova Scotia, which looks JUST LIKE Salt Lake City, curiously enough…
Perhaps I’m stressed out? Anxious about our trip? Sick of cleaning up poo (Which, incidentally, I came home from the FISM to find yesterday. Yup, doggie was sick. Again.)? I know one thing, they are vivid, I remember strange details and it’s fabulous entertainment. In fact? I’m looking forward to some good ones tonight. Preferably ones that do not contain me cleaning up bodily fluids from children or animals the whole time. And the ones where I am in a public restroom and there are no stalls and I have to go soooo badly and there are just a bunch of randomly placed toilets out in the open and I can’t go because I’ve got performance anxiety? Yeah, wishing that one would stop.
My favorite dream is a recurring dream. I am flying. Except I’m swimming. Just me, in the air, above the ground, soaring while doing the front crawl or breast stroke (heh heh…she said breast!). I don’t know why I like that one so much, I just do. I’ve been having it since I was a kid, dreaming about flying to school instead of walking to school. I mean, wouldn’t it be cool? To be able to fly, but swimming and not going too fast and not too high and just feeling the breeze as you fly by? I find it relaxing. Maybe it means I need to go swimming. Or it means I ate bad fish or something.
Perhaps the most interesting dreams I’ve had lately are the Bugaboo dreams. I wake up SWEARING the child talked to me, wrote his name, went ON THE TOILET or went to school with Bug Boy. Those are the dreams that are tough to get over. They haunt me for days, as I long to hear his voice. And more than him repeating, “Mamamamamamama” as he babbles while he restlessly wanders around the house. More than anything I want to hear my baby’s voice. I know it won’t solve all of our problems, but gosh! Imagine it! I know it won’t be as profound as when Bug Boy FINALLY talked at the age of 2+ (“Oh Look! A Baby! I want a cookie!” First thing he ever said. EVER.) and heck, knowing the way I cuss like a drunken sailor, it will no doubt be “DANG GIT!” or “FUDGE!” Except not exactly those words. You know, the real ones. The ones that make my skin crawl when my husband insists on watching Goodfellas. Again. But I digress…his voice. That’s all I want. For the rest of my life. Even if it means I still have to clean up the poo…
Speaking of cleaning up poo (I swear this is going somewhere.), I did something dangerous last night. I held my neighbor’s infant daughter. She’s seriously the cutest baby ever. I mean it. Curly hair, HUGE blue eyes, a wide, toothless grin…When I hold her and smell that baby smell? It reminds me of how badly I want another child. Yes, I AM INSANE! I know it ain’t happening. But I do want it, just keeping it real here, folks. But holding her brings back a flood of memories…holding those boys for the first time, drinking in their scents while they nurse, soothing them when they were ill, holding them close to my chest, dishes piling up in my sink for days, not taking a shower for a while…ok, maybe not the last two. But you get what I am saying. I miss those days so much. It’s not that I don’t enjoy my life now. In fact, I love my life. Even when I’m steaming my carpets at 9 pm for the third day in a row. I just feel in my heart that our family isn’t complete. And when I bring it up with Darling, his face turns white as a ghost and he looks petrified and he states, “But honey? We can barely do THIS. How are we going to do THAT?” And then I say, “Just kidding! Can we get another dog instead?” Because my thinking is that if I scare him into thinking I want to have a baby, maybe he’ll let me get another dog. Or let me kidnap my parents’ dog. But the husband? He’s WAAAAAAAY too smart for that, ’cause then he says, “No.” And goes back to the garage, where he lives. Don’t worry, I let him out to go to work. And he cuts the grass.
Tell me, do you have recurring dreams?