Jul 29, 2008

Dreams and Spilt Milk

My dreams were starting to get interesting. No more easy dreams about old boyfriends and falling off cliffs, now my dreams were starting to intrude upon my waking life. New flavors of ice cream were invented, I drowned in chocolate pillowcases, and in one particularly bizarre incidence, a salami sandwich tried explaining existentialism to me. I ate him, so I got the last laugh in the end.

Ok, I'm kidding about that last one, but I really did have some uncanny dreams beginning with the very night I told Ty I was pregnant. That night in la-la-land, I gave birth to a fully developed baby. When we went to check whether it was a boy or a girl, there was nothing. No sex organs at all. I was confused, but not quite proportionately to how confused I should have been. I had all these baby clothes, and my height of confusion was, "Well should I dress this child in blue or pink?" So I pulled out a cute pink dress and put the baby in it. The poor child began screaming wildly, protesting with every nerve in it's body. So I took the dress off and put a blue jumper on. Immediately the baby calmed down, and even smiled. I felt my confusion wash away and turned to tell Ty we had a son.

I wonder if dreams have any meaning? Could we be having a boy?

Every pregnant woman complains about three things: odd cravings, not being able to sleep, and her crazy, wacked-out hormones. Now, I'm a very even-keeled person, and take great pride in being fairly predictale, and well as emotionally stable. And throughout this pregnancy I was not noticing any hormone changes to contridict that. Until the Milk Incident, that is.

I go through hobby phases. One-third of the year I'm obsessed with scrapbooking, another third it's beading. This particular season I was really into crocheting. These hobbies all drive Ty batty because of the bills I can rack up, and crocheting is no excepting to this rule. At this moment I was working on $60 worth of really nice wool-textured yarn, making one of my brothers an afghan. Ty and I were comfortable on the couch, watching something mindless on TV, (probably football) and I was working on the afghan. I had dairy cravings that day, so was alternating Milk Duds with sips from a large glass of milk. Football interests me about as much as any girl, and I was concentrating on my blanket. Single crochet, single crochet, chain three, turn - whoops! Knocked over the milk! Right...onto...my...lap! Oh! It gets worse! The other half emptied into my basket containing the remainder of the rolls of yarn!

It was a slow-motion moment, "Noooooo!", but I reacted quickly. I grabbed some paper towels and went at it, dabbing here and there, trying to salvage what I could. I was the most upset over the balls of yarn being soaked, because I wasn't sure how to wash those. A few seconds into my cleaning, I looked up expectantly at my husband, who was still focused on his football. He must have noticed me glaring at him, because he turned and said innocently, "What?"
"Well I don't know, why aren't you helping me?"
"(Snorts) You don't need my help, it's not that big of a mess!"
I finished without another word and stomped upstairs, seething. I changed into my pajamas, fully intending to go to bed without speaking to him the rest of the night, when something caught my eye.

Something purple, and creeping into my cleavage.

The dreaded stretch marks. Upon further investigation, I realized they were taking over most of my body. My frustration and anger morphed into humiliation and despair and I burst into tears. Ty, baffled by my stormy exit, was coming upstairs to find out what he had done. Seeing me now, sobbing on the bed, he gently sat down on the side of the bed and asked,

"Honey? Are these pregnancy hormones?"

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