This morning I woke up to the sound of Jerry skidding his feet along the rug in a drowsy stupor, making his way around the bed and out of the bedroom. But when he came back a few seconds later without any indication of a toilet flushing, I asked him if everything was okay.
"I had a nightmare that the baby was puking everywhere and we didn't have any burpcloths. ... So I had to check and make sure we had some."
I just laughed.
We have an entire drawer full. In various shapes, colors and consistency. Some even boast the ability to absorb 400 billion times their weight in liquid. And the fact that he is worried about mass regurgitation is, well, just so Jerry.
"My dream was much better than that."
For the first time ever -- in my subconscious anyway -- I got to interact with her. Until now, the baby has always been this elusive thing in my dreams. Something I'm preparing for, but not able to see or touch.
There was absolutely nothing spectacular about this dream. We weren't doing anything of consequence, just sitting in our living room. And I was holding our daughter.
She looked just like her dad, only with light eyes like mine and had a thick layer of dark spiky hair.
Somehow, I think that dream is going to motivate me through labor.
I want to meet her more than ever.