Last night I had a bad dream. The sad thing about it is that I know that it will eventually be real.
In my dream I awoke like I do most mornings around 5:30 or 6 and went to the baby. In my dream, though, she wasn’t a little lump swaddled and sweetly sleeping in her bassinet. Over night she had grown from her current six week old state. She was at least 35 pounds and three feet tall. Her face had filled out; it was longer, more mature. Her hair was long and brown, her current soft dusting of hair replaced by brushable locks.
I pulled her out to feed her. My back ached at the strain of the lift that is normally so effortless. She wiggled out of my arms and promptly began toddling across the room. I didn’t know whether to feel proud that my baby was walking or horrified that she had acquired this skill overnight.
I went to B to show him what had happened and what she was doing. When we both returned to her, not only was she still walking, but she had somehow procured some of my clothes and had put them on. I was mortified. I told B to call the pediatrician. Something was very wrong. Babies shouldn’t grow like this.
He was calm. “This is only natural,” he replied.
I collected her in my arms and rocked her like a newborn. She struggled and ran off to play.
At that point I woke myself because I couldn’t stand it anymore.
This is probably the most easily interpreted dream I’ve ever had. This,
has turned into this,
in a matter of six weeks. And she’s not stopping for anyone.
It’s beautifully heartbreaking.