We Are All So Very Tired. And Dreaming About Grout.

Last night, I was awakened at 3am by a smallish person, excitedly telling me about dreams and stories and silly things. Well, I had to take her word for it because frankly, I wasn't finding her jive all that hilarious.

But she's usually pretty spot on with these things, so I'll trust her that it was all very funny.

Anyway, the 3 year-old didn't wake me from the soundest sleep. At the time of her arrival in our bed, I was tossing and turning with half-awake dreams concerning glass mosaic tile and an ever-shifting squishy wall of mortar.

I'm not proud of this story, I'm just telling it like it is.

And since I possess a glorious memory foam pillow, I spent more time than I care to admit trying to flatten my pillow's surface, completely convinced that it was the errant backsplash wall. Ever try to flatten a memory foam pillow? Yeah, it works real well.

And Nora never fell back to sleep.

And I never managed to flatten that pillow/mortar wall.

And Susannah had her 18 month shots this a.m., along with an exciting blood draw which included the nurses' third consecutive visit attempt to find her baby veins.

We are all Feeling Feelings.

And as of publication time, none of those "feelings" have been that of anyone's face hitting anyone's bed-like surface. Which is just as well-

My pillow clearly cannot be trusted, anyhow.

The Only Thing To Fear Is A 20lb Baby.

Abandoned.

Pregnancy dreams are rotten.

For the past two nights, I've had some doozies. Now- granted- I've been having extraordinarily vivid dreams since I was a little kid (they used to be nightmares, but now that I've "grown up" and kinda had FEAR redefined...the dreams just seem harmlessly freaky in retrospect. Although the recurring one I've had about someone screaming at me in train tunnel- since I was four- still qualifies). But these are pretty nitro.

Two nights ago, I had what seemed like an eighteen hour-long dream wherein P.J. left me. Rather rudely. He passed me off to a friend, telling him what I liked and didn't like, habits, food preferences...and oh- how I was seven months pregnant. (Why the friend didn't know this seriously leads me to doubt the magnitude of their friendship.) And did I mention that this leaving took place in a hospital cafeteria? Not even a decent one, like at Prentice.

And why was he leaving me, you might ask? He needed to go study abroad, obviously. His theatre career needed...something...and he had to make a clean break. Sure. He explained this to me on our walk from the cafeteria to the Loews Cineplex where he forced me to sit in the front row and watch Scream 2. Firstly: I hate horror movies. He knows this. Secondly: Scream 2? Thirdly: That movie is not even showing anywhere right now. I have checked.

The next night's dream took place in the delivery room where I was undergoing a c-section. They were mighty casual about it, even letting me walk around during the surgery. (Medical advancements are CRAZY these days, people.) I even got to hold Nora. Which is less What A Treat these days and more Typical. Do I Have To Do Everything? Anyhow, had the kid. And this conversation went down: "Mrs. Schoeny, how big was Nora?" "Six pounds, fifteen ounces." "This one's a little bigger." "It would be hard not to be. How much bigger?" "He's twenty pounds."

That wouldn't have bothered me as much if not for the fact that they went on to tell me that they had nicked at least five major organs (and perhaps a few minor ones) and unless they gave me another spinal I'd probably bleed out. But since I was still holding Nora (typical!), I had already lost track of my son. Whom they had- obviously- placed on the ground. We found him crawling around and stuck under a chair, which I'm told is normal for toddler-sized newborns.

It was, however, pretty cool to have two same-sized children, even if one was a full two years older.

And yeah, it's pretty obvious what these pregnancy dreams say about my fears: my movie-going taste is deemed inadequate by my husband and I would ignore a fat child.

Obviously.

It might be time to curtail the late-night snackin'.

But I think we all know I'm not one for rash decisions like that.

Strangely, True Blood did not play into the dream AT ALL.

There was a fountain here a sec ago.

Emma and Dan have left. Boo.

However, we no longer have 8,000 glasses, cups, and mugs in/on the sink/ dishwasher/ countertops. (Flynn girls pride themselves on hydration.)

No one is making me laugh like a loon by announcing "Hey, brotherrr" (a la Arrested Development) every time someone enters the room.

But then again, no is giving me palpitations by making me wonder what train stop they're taking home/if the alarm is properly set/did someone grab an umbrella for the flash monsoon? (This must be what it's like to have kids...in their mid twenties.)

Seriously, in the past...couple...of years, I've totally forgotten what it's like to stay out past 9:30pm. I mean, I did it. There was a time when 6am was considered time for bed and not a toddler's brekkie. After all, Peej and I spent the formative months of our friendship in a late night show that ended at 1am. So obviously we had to get a drink around 1:30 or 2am. And you couldn't leave before the Tamale Guy showed up. (See? The Mexican food's not just a pregnancy thing.)

But these days, it's just another planet which I no longer orbit. Perhaps in a different solar system.

When Dan and Em suggested going to see an improv show at midnight, I actually laughed. But, as it turns out, these things still happen. (Go to bed, people!) On Friday night, after the four of us watched The Soup- which, uh, is the Schoeny late night event...at 9- they left for the 10:30pm I.O. show and stayed for the midnight one as well. By 10:30 in my house, we had watched the last forty minutes of Good Will Hunting, half an episode of House Hunters International (in Italy!), and fallen fast asleep...where we would remain until midnight. Then we groggily dragged ourselves upstairs to bed and remained there until the smallest and loudest of us needed bacon at 6:30am.

That said, we had a lovely, quiet morning (except for one impromptu mix CD dance party)- and even that wasn't until 10am. (Sorry, Em and Dan, who didn't wake until 11am. Hope you liked the ceiling music.)

I'm pretty sure I just sent a dozen people running to refill their birth control prescriptions. But- and here's the kicker- P.J. and I were early-fall-asleep-on-the-couchers way before we were even married. Homeboditude (read: lameness) knows no age. But the age thing doesn't exactly help.

Speaking of baby-related perks, I've been having more than my fair share of hormone dreams lately. These are a joy (for P.J.) and I can't tell which my tolerant husband least prefers:

A) The dream in which I have an epic relationship with someone whom I've not-so-quietly crushed on for the past few years. Most recently, Alexander Skarsgard of True Blood fame. I like him a lot. Now, these dreams aren't the kind where you wake up and wonder if you should mention anything to your faithful and devoted husband. Nope, these are the five hour sagas wherein a love affair begins, comes to fruition with a full blown Ikea jaunt, has each and every step along the way (even the Saturday Afternoon Listening to Vinyl On the Couch, Wondering Who's Gonna Make the Hamburger Helper phase) and its eventual breakup. All of these in EXTRAORDINARY detail. By the time I woke up from this dream the other morning, there was no question about whether or not to tell Peej. I was downright mournful (of my painful breakup with Alex) and contrite (about living with another man while carrying the first's child).

P.J. really didn't want to hear about that one. But he may actually savor those mornings over the ones where the other option has occurred-

B) P.J. is a jerk. A real meanie. For example, the other night, Dream P.J. was getting high in bathrooms with girls that looked like young Heather Grahams and Did. Not. Care. that this made me unhappy. Later in the dream, he changed religions to one where he could no longer be in the same room with me. (I have no idea why this was stipulated, it just was.) He also told me that I was stupid. (Because my worst dreams involve second grade insults.) This was also a really lengthy dream, so Peej got the pleasure of awaking to me glaring at him. I seriously had a good mad on for my first hour of the day. Which, admittedly, is not fair. But come on, Heather Graham?

I never said I was easy to cohabitate with. (In fact, I may have even suggested the opposite.)

None of these things (complete 180 of schedules/nighttime habits/things you couldn't possibly know for which to apologize in advance) are included in marriage vows. Part of me thinks that this should be amended.

The other part wants to gleefully wait and watch people find out for themselves.

Says the girl who has been married for three years...and has people watching her to "just wait."

In a nutshell, I'm a lame-o, I watch fabulous television, babies make you get up early, we consume a lot of bacon, pregnancy is crazy, illicit dreams are an excusable sin, and I have unfair rules and standards.

Also, I miss my sister and her boyfriend.

(Hey, brotherrr.)

Is that like Baker Street?

Last night I had a dream that I had the most amazing blog post. It was timely, well-written, and was essentially gonna make everyone understand that I had Something To Say. Unfortunately, by the time I realized I had not yet posted the thing, it was 5pm. And, as everyone knows, due to a self-imposed and completely random timetable, I need to have the blog posted by 11am. If not earlier.

So I went to post the darn thing, but somehow couldn't. Neither of my trusty methods o' constant communication were nearby. More importantly, neither was my daughter. She was in a library/daycare/cathedral type of place. And I had an empty stroller. And somehow- just somehow- I knew that she desperately needed to have a diaper change. I couldn't find her, however, since the name of the street on which the amalgamation building resided was escaping my memory. It started with an 'm,' that much I knew. I actually asked a passerby if he knew where "Mojito Street" was. (If THAT'S not a telling bit of dream info, then I don't know what is.)

While I searched for the correct one-way street, I amused myself by high-fiving various Hampshire College graduates...some of whom I've never spoken a word to, either in college or in the ether of dreams. Nevertheless, they seemed pleased to see me. That's always nice.

Finally found the place, but couldn't get upstairs because the thing had been designed by M.C. Escher. I asked someone for help, but realized I couldn't talk. For I was choking to death. On a Duplo. (That's right, an oversized Lego block.) Where did I get this? Oh, earlier in the dream I had been wandering through my childhood home with two of my nephews, obvie. But how it got lodged in my windpipe is another nebulous matter.

So, OF COURSE they had to call the paramedics. But guess what? Ineptitude is not just limited to cathedral/daycare design nor street-naming. These EMTS took their sweet time coming to my rescue. "Traffic was bad," one guy lamely told me. "Yeah? I am DYING," I managed to squeak out. "And do not need your excuses."

And instead of getting down to business and, you know, freeing my throat, they proceeded to tell me about the most killer concert that they had just seen- and did I know blahdiblah? (I didn't even retain the name, that's how irked I was.)

Eventually they just gave me a prescription and left a pair of tongs with P.J., just in case. (Oh yeah, and P.J. had just sorta waltzed in during this last part. Where's your daughter, Philip?!) Then they all left. Typ.i.cal.

Finally- somehow- found Nora, (and yes she DID need a new diaper, thankyouverymuch), and was all dirty and sweaty. (Never leaving her there again, Dream Keely told herself.)

And it was at that moment that I realized I was late for work. By fifteen minutes. And Lily was alone in her house, across town, waking up from a nap. (I KNOW these things instinctively.) So I called my bosses, apologizing for my tardiness, but knew that it wouldn't be well-received.

It was the third time this week that it had happened, after all.

***

Happiest of 60th birthdays to my Dad! May the rockiest and rollingest guy ever to ground me have another 60 years of exceptional lawn care, priceless music trivia, and the best alfredo sauce outside of Italy.

You are so right, Dad.

And I promise to never eat that much before bed, ever again.