Dreams of a Bad Blogger
I’m not sure how well I can convey this in writing.
I had a dream wherein I’d suddenly become a mom. Not like, “Yay! I’ve had this baby I’ve always wanted,” but more like, “Oh. There’s a child now.”
The problems were twofold:
- I was somehow going to have to explain to Andrew that, while I hadn’t cheated on him, I’d somehow managed to produce a child just a month and a half after leaving Chicago.
- The baby was fugly as hell. There is no way that our combined genes produced this creature.
Now. A reasonable person might assume that I would care for the creature produced of my loins. You’d be kind of right. In the dream, I sort of put it up in its bedroom for about 24 hours. I say it because it was unclear to me what sex the child was - the dream didn’t really include the birthing part of this whole ordeal; I was just suddenly saddled with a child of indeterminate and fugly parentage.
Eventually, I decided to name the kid “Brad” in the interim as I settled on a permanent name. The theory behind this being that it was better to have a crappily named kid than a kid with no name. It also peed everywhere and practically devoured my shirt in an attempt to breastfeed. It wasn’t as terrifying as it sounds, but - like my marriage dream from high school - it’s proved once again that I’m unfit for any kind of domicile. Better to leave me off with the wolves where I belong I think.
It had a seriously lazy eye. It alarms me to think that I might someday have a child I know is truly ugly. In the dream I was like, “Shit. This might have to go for adoption.”
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