I can remember dreaming that a dinosaur was chasing me around a barn when I was little. I can remember waking up frustrated after a dream that I had accumulated a ten-pound bag of candy but didn't stay asleep long enough to eat a single piece. I have an active imagination, and sleeping is no reprieve. Lately, I've had more dreams than I can count about my baby.
I've been dreaming about the baby since I found out I was pregnant in November. At first, they were the silliest, most unrealistic dreams imaginable.
Some time in December, I had a dream that I had given birth to a baby boy, (this was before I knew the gender) and every time I tried to bathe him, he gradually shrunk into a gingerbread man. I resigned to stop giving him baths in an effort to save my cinnamon-scented little boy.
One night last month, I was dreaming that I was in the process of giving birth, and my doctor was just standing in the corner of the room making me do everything by myself. She came out perfectly healthy, but I didn't want to turn her over to the negligent hospital staff.
Last night, I had a dream that my daughter was bizarrely strong for a newborn and I only wanted to feed her strawberries. In my dream, I kept making trip after trip to the grocery store to buy more strawberries, an especially difficult task since I had to pick through mounds of them to find the most perfectly red ones for baby girl.
I once read that pregnant women go through different stages of dreams for each trimester. I'm not sure if that's true, but I can say from experience that pregnancy brings with it a trip through the looking glass. If my dreams have been any indication, then motherhood is going to be a wild ride.
Frankly, I can't wait.
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