This weekend I had one of the best dreams of my entire life. I woke up Saturday with a big smile on my face, and if you knew the week I had just had, you would understand why that was an amazing accomplishment.
I had a dream that I was going into labor and Jeff and I were at the hospital. In terms of logistics, everything in my dream was clean and smooth and undramatic. When it came time to push, I was aware that Jeff and another woman was there helping me, along with the doctor, who was also female. I pushed for a while, but Peppermint was not coming out. The doctor opened a binder with full of yellow pieces of paper and said that she would recommend a C-section. I implored her to give me one more round of pushes, and if that didn't produce a Peppermint, then I would surrender to the C-section. Well, I hunked down and pushed with everything inside of me and out came my perfect eight-pound baby girl. She was perfect and had great lungs and plenty of healthy meat on her bones. In my dream was holding her and looking at her -- it felt like forever. All of the sudden, she opened her mouth and said, "Hey, mom, can you please get me a clean, dry blanket and something to eat." I remember laughing and looking for Jeff to tell him that our daughter can talk and she can tell us what she needs! I couldn't believe my little baby just talked to me in perfect sentences. When I couldn't find Jeff in the room, I took the baby out into the kitchenette down the hall, where Jeff and some of his family members were making spaghetti sauce. I told Jeff that I needed a clean blanket for Peppermint and also it was time to start breastfeeding. We all three retreated to the hospital room to start the great breastfeeding adventure.
Then, I woke up with the delicious feeling of hope, excitement and promise in my heart.
Man, there is so much goodness in that dream. As much as I loved my recurring sex dream about Will Smith, and I really loved the one about Sean Penn, the dream about my daughter and our connection was better than any naughty dream I could ever conjure up. The feeling I had looking at my daughter in the dream was like nothing I have ever imagined. I can't even think of anything close. I also love that I was supportive of her asking for what she needs. I sort of hope that I will be a little more on top of the blanket and food situation when the actual birthday happens, but if not, I certainly support her telling me in whatever words, sounds or gestures she has at her disposal!
Another reason I love the dream is because it speaks to this deep, down quiet calm and certainty inside of me that I rarely ever give voice to in my daily, waking life. Because of some fascinating quirks in my character, I am more likely to bemoan the economy, or describe a perceived insult about my mothering, or to talk sh*t about my ob/gyn. What this dream reminds me is that it's just as honest for me to lean over and tell the person next to me on the train that I am doing great, my life is unfolding in a miraculous way, and that my daughter is cooking away and more welcome than I could ever express.
Actually, it's more honest, because I don't really understand anything about the economy right now -- locally or globally-- I really just know there's lots of fear and speculation and excuses for me to take my eyes off my own daily sliver of road I'm walking on. I don't really know how to evaulate my ob/gyn for that matter. I am mostly angry at her for not being more hysterical about my early aches and pains and for having some very mainstream ideas about weight gain in pregnancy. As for the insults about my mothering, I think I better get used to that. If I can find them anywhere-- lurking behind all comments and commentary-- it's probably only going to get worse when I have a child who can breathe outside of my womb.
Because here's the thing: Everyone has a mother. She may have left or died or never been around, but everyone's got one and everyone is carrying around a template of his or her own relationship with the big M. The healing, the scars, the shoes to fill. It's not my problem. I got my hands full with my Big M and my own incarnation of my own Big M self. I have already committed to do this imperfectly-- to sometimes serve non-organic milk or to use a Baby Einstein video. I have committed to being messy-- that diaper Genie may overflow from time to time and the diaper on the baby may overflow too. Big fucking deal. I would rather be honest: true me, my true hair color, my true self, who hopes to get better and more authentic with age. That's the commitment. If I could check my neurosis at the door, I would have done that long ago. And if I had, I just wouldn't be me. And that's NOT the message I plan to send to Peppermint.
No comments:
Post a Comment