Well, I should have known by my surroundings that this wasn't going to be a normal delivery. I was giving birth in what looked like a garage. And not a small one. No, it was one that seemed suited to car thieves dismantling stolen vehicles. There was even a huge tool crate nearby in addition to the hospital monitors at my side. The nurses were dressed in short skirts, crazy tights and tall boots, and they had glam, dark make-up on their faces. They brushed off my protests that the baby needed a good washing up, and they headed for the door - no doubt for a date with their felon boyfriends.
That odd dream began my weekend. It is, I believe, what convinced me to go out to my dining room Saturday morning and sort through my toddler boy's baby photos in order to finally put them in his album. The project was arduous, but I prevailed, even filling the last several pages of our family album with a year's worth of birthdays, vacations and holidays.
After recovering for sometime from the headache of looking down for two-and-a-half hours, I then hauled the kids' white metal table out into the gravel of our front yard and unfolded camp chairs around it. My three youngest and I had a pleasantly simple alfresco lunch under the huge eucalyptus tree. There was a fine breeze, and clouds provided an enormous, benevolent canopy above. In general the weather was so gorgeous and unexpected that I swear we could see Autumn waving to us from behind a saguaro just down the street.
Reluctantly, we returned to the indoors for my Danny boy to keep his appointment with a nap. I then sent off a guest writer's submission to another site. (The anticipation of that was probably the source of my strange birthing dream.) Then I switched out the bunnies and pastels on my hutch for decorations that will hopefully entice Autumn to stride down the street in plain sight.
Of course, my kids also pleaded for the Halloween bin. I felt some of their excitement. I dreamed of stealing their chocolate bars on that ghoulish holiday as I watched them try on old costumes, turning themselves into mutant soccer-monster, pirate, vampire superheroes.
This morning at approximately 12:38am, my Danny whispered in my ear, "Milk, Mama. Milk."
The whispers become more insistent the more I attempted to poo-poo them, so I grumpily stomped down the hall to retrieve a sippy cup from the fridge, That bought me about five more hours, and then he leaned close to my ear anew and breathed, "Mama, Max and Ruby. Max and Ruby, Mama."
Dear heavens, he was asking for television! How long had he been awake?
"NO! No Max and Ruby."
He humphed at me, and then proceeded to his sisters' room to wake them up. They were already up (at 5:30 am!), so I scolded them and told them to force themselves back to sleep. Then I told my toddler that if he wanted to sit in a dark living room by himself, so be it. I just want sleep, dammit, so I returned to my bed down the short hall to snuggle against my Man.
Presently I heard a doorbell.
"Ding-dong, Mama! Ding-Dong!"
Maybe he was being a doorbell, or maybe he was calling me a ding-dong. Lately, though, this is something he has been doing whenever he wants someone's attention, and they are not properly engaged in what he's doing or saying.
The doorbell was only going to get louder, so I kissed my bed goodbye - with tears and sad, weak waving that went on too long, and I promised we would someday be together for real.
There's nothing to do but stagger out, kiss your children and face the day, opening the curtains and praying the sun's rays have all the mood-enhancing and energizing power they're said to have.
My mood improved a great deal by the time I was driving my oldest two to school. I put on a Beatles CD and sang and bobbed along to Baby, you can drive my car, looking back at my smiling son who has not yet learned to roll his eyes at everything Mama does.
"Beep-beep, uh beep-beep, Yeah!"
Here's looking at you, Week. You'd better be a good one.