The Path Not Taken

People, I do not understand myself.  I have been pondering (obsessing about) this pregnancy dream for a couple of weeks now. 

What does it mean?  Have I somehow changed my mind about having another baby?  If it were possible, would I want to do it all again?

After much thought, I don’t think so.  My feelings have changed, in that the idea does not make me retch.  My fundamental sense that our family is complete remains, though.

Apparently, there was some secret part of me that went on … hoping?  fearing? … that maybe some big cosmic accident could’ve happened.  Now, faced with proof that even that part of me can’t ignore, I am sad.

Human emotion is so trippy.

Dreamland

I do not usually remember my dreams when I wake up in the morning, so the ones I do remember stick with me.

For example, the week before my cousin’s wedding, I dreamed that he and his fiancee came to our house to hear me play the piano pieces I was going to play at the ceremony.  They hated every song, and everyone was so angry at me that my grandfather stood up and turned all the pictures on the wall backward so that the people in them would not have to look at me.  (Because that’s obviously what anyone would do if their granddaughter picked the wrong songs for their grandson’s wedding.)

Shortly before my own wedding, I dreamed that the Jellyman and the pastor had a lengthy conversation in the middle of the service.  They ignored me until I stamped my white-shoed foot and started ranting to the congregation about insensitive men ruining MY WEDDING DAY.  I woke up still angry with the Jellyman.

My point is that it has never been hard, in the past, to connect a memorable dream to an event that might be stressing me out a teeny bit.  It certainly has never required a degree in psychology before.  That being said, I am totally stumped by these latest entries:

1) I dreamed I was pregnant.*  What’s bothering me about this dream, though, is that in the dream I was not freaking out at all.  I was all, “Ohh, a baaabbyyyy!  I love being pregnant!”  Clearly, not a dream deeply connected to any reality in my world.  (Love babies.  Do not love being pregnant.)

2) I dreamed we ran into our realtor (excuse me, Realtor), whom we haven’t seen since we bought this house 3 1/2 years ago.  He was a horrible orange color, like he’d been self-tanning or something.  We asked how things were going, with the housing market so messed up, and he got this crazed look in his eye.  He started to beg us to buy another house, the way I imagine a drug addict would beg for crack.  This is clearly a very timely  and well-informed dream, but what could it possibly mean!?

*Don’t say it.  Don’t even think it.  Remember this?

Spring Has Sprung, and Other Observations

Some of the bulbs I planted last fall are actually developing into real, live plants.  I consider this proof that I am a master gardener, and not just a completely black-thumbed fool, as I had previously believed.

I bought the movie Enchanted, thinking Raisin would like it, but when I watched it to make sure it was appropriate, I realized that Susan Sarandon’s character would freak her out.  I, however, am obsessed.  Up until now, I was one of maybe 3 women in America who did not think Patrick Dempsey was all that McDreamy.  I am now convinced.  And I want to learn how to waltz.  (Well, I know how.  I want to be good at it.)

The last time I really rode my bike for any distance, I fell off it and made a mess of my knees.   Shortly thereafter, I found out I was pregnant with Raisin, convinced myself that I had probably done irreparable damage to my baby* by falling off the bike, and did not touch it again.  Plus, it’s hard to push a stroller (especially a double) and bike at the same time.  This summer, we have 3 kids who are all big enough to ride in a trailer, and if the Jellyman and I go together, we can manage all of them.  So, we went for a bike ride.  I did not fall down, although it was a near thing, since I kept trying to turn around to check on Apple.

I accepted a permanent job with the bank (I had been working there through a temp agency).  I still don’t love it, but now I have benefits and a 401(K).  I find I am willing to put up with a semi-crappy job, in exchange for a little stability.  At least for now.

Apple and Orange have discovered airplanes, and they both point in unison at the sky whenever they hear one, or even if someone just says, “airplane.”  I feel like I’m living on Fantasy Island, except my island has more midgets, and fewer fantasies.

Oops, gotta go.  The midgets (and, as their mother, of course I say this with all affection) are awake.

*Four years and nine months later, I am willing to admit that she will most likely be fine.

Further Proof That It Is Really Hard To Be Me*

I can’t find a restaurant to go to for my birthday.  My criteria are: kid-friendly, takes reservations, not the same place we always go.  Apparently, Minnesota has no restaurants in this category.  None.

I listen to podcasts at work to help pass the time.  Both NPR and the BBC have recently published several broadcasts about sleep studies.  Apparently, insufficient sleep makes one stupid and fat.  Fellow parents, that information is both useful and comforting, is it not?

It is going to snow on my birthday.  [Insert weeping and nashing of teeth.]  Am tired of winter, please to make it stop.

Raisin seems to have inherited my freakish fish allergy.  She’s never had a problem before, but today’s fish sticks caused her to spend the last 2 hours groaning and saying she needed to throw up.  That’s lovely.

*Yup.  Life in suburban, white, middle-class America is just tough.  At least, compared to suburban, white, UPPER-middle-class America.

Manic Monday

I know very few “stay-home” moms who are not employed.  Almost all of them work from home, or take in day care kids, or work nights.

And of the “working” moms, I know very few who do not have to wrangle a certain amount of flexibility out of their job, because they are the first call the school/day care will make when the kids are sick.

We are all just sprinting to try to get the next thing done, on time if we are lucky.

That is why my new favorite thing is the Manic Mommies podcast, which is hilarious.  I haven’t joined the community, but I am working my way through all the old episodes, and I laugh out loud at work all the time.  My coworkers already think I’m crazy, so this should just confirm that for them.

Milestones

In the coming month, the Jellyman and I will celebrate our 6th anniversary.  I will turn 30.  Raisin will have her 4th birthday.  Significant events!  Must reflect!  (But let’s hurry it along, ok, because there’s stuff to do!)

Six years with the Jellyman.  It sounds so short — my grandparents will be celebrating their 61st anniversary this year, so in a way it’s hard to get too worked up about six years.  But, hey, a lot of people don’t make it that far.  Or, if they do, they are long past the time when they would rather work early in the morning or late at night just so they can still have dinner together.  They don’t laugh at each other’s jokes anymore.  We do.  We are, in some ways, past the early stage of blushing romance, but this is better.  This daily pulling each other through, bearing each other up — this is something I can honestly hope to hold on to for another 55 years.

When I think about my birthday, I keep hearing the Tim McGraw song “My Next Thirty Years,” in which Tim lists such lofty goals as drinking “a few more lemonades, and not so many beers” so that “maybe I’ll remember my next thirty years.”  In my case, probably I should shoot for more beers — make that margaritas — and fewer lemonades.  Maybe I’ll chill out a little in my next thirty years.

Honestly, though, I have no idea what kind of goals I should set for myself at age 60.  I am none of things my high-school self would’ve expected the 30-year-old me to be.  Arguably, I am more mature and realistic now, but I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up (except for what I already am, I mean).  It’s funny, really.  In the small things, I plan minutely.  Our family calendar is compulsively notated for every task, appointment, meeting, party, and outing that can be even tentatively scheduled.  But in the long-term, I have never really known what I want. 

I feel vaguely guilty about it.  An adult with three kids should know herself, right?  She should have some idea of how her strengths might be put to use; she should be confident enough to go get what she wants.  That is so not where I am.

And yet, none of the decisions that have really changed my life were the result of some long-cherished dream coming true.  My marriage, my kids, my choice to stay home — they were all things that just seemed right at the time, and they are so much better than anything I could’ve come up with on my own. 

Maybe those margaritas really are a good idea — relaxing and accepting what comes my way actually sounds like a darn good way to spend the middle years of my life.

Finally, Raisin will be four in a few weeks.  She passed her pre-kindergarten screening with aplomb, and altogether bears little resemblance to the teensy baby I thought would never grow up.  She writes her name, recognizes street signs, makes her own bed, and knows how to dial 9-1-1*.  In other words, she is an honest-to-goodness CHILD.  A smart, beautiful, confident girl, she is more than ready to start making her own way in the world. 

It is so much fun to start sharing interests with her.  The Jellyman’s mom bought her the Little House books, which she loves, just like her dad did as a kid.  I started telling her the story of the Wizard of Oz (my favorite childhood movie), and she is enthralled.  Some days I just cannot believe that we made a little person who is so much herself, and yet so much of us.  How awesome are we!?

There.  Reflection over.  Now, if you will excuse me, all of these events must be commemorated with dinners and parties and presents.  See you on the flip side!

*She hasn’t needed to.  She just knows how.