Last night I dreamt that Johnny Depp, Z and I couldn’t find parking after driving to the cinema on a large stick of butter. J dashed off to the movie and I was left to find a spot that would neither melt nor attract car/butter thieves (there being no locking system, of course). When the wrapper started to shift and make things messy, I bailed and spent most of my time trying to keep Z safe as we descended a frightfully steep embankment. By the time we got down it was the middle of the night, the movie had ended, J had gone, and we found ourselves trapped in Haymarket T Station in Boston amid thousands of drunkards on their way to a Cure concert. Someone stole the shoes right off my feet and I was paralyzed by my fear of germs.
I doubted there’d be a difference between pregnancy dreams and my usual death-defying-feats of sleep. I’ve been a lucid dreamer since I was a small child. But I have to admit riding a stick of butter with Johnny Depp was a nice surprise. The rest of it was standard fair. I deliberately spare you the tedious details of my epic dreamscapes, because there’s nothing more boring than a person blathering on about their dreams (unless the listener is the star of the dream), but this was a special occasion.
I’ve also had insomnia for most of my life, which parenthood failed to cure, but pregnancy has. The ability to fall asleep is new and exciting for me. Yesterday when my sister ran into Walgreen’s I reclined my car seat, closed my eyes and the next thing I knew – snores and drool. Five minutes later I jumped out of my skin when she got back into the car. It’s astonishing. I’m really hoping my body remembers how to do this. At night, propped and supported by ten thousand pillows none of which do very much to ease the pain of my joints, muscles or belly, I rest my head and then WHAM I’m out. Hitting the pillow used to signal to my body that it was time to think until dawn. Between that and the crazy dreams, by morning I’d feel even more exhausted than when I went to bed. Now, though still exhausted by the cruel cycle of waking up every two hours to pee, I’ve become a lot like the most masterful sleeper I know, TC: 3-2-1-snoooooore.
Side note. My sister brought the girls a collection of Disney Princess figurines and we’re delighted that Z has taken to calling one of them Sleeping Doodie. Get it? Sleeping Doodie. Like doo-doo. Get it?