Mama Geek

About pregnancy dreams. Everyone expects you to have odd pregnancy dreams. Especially my mother-in-law and family, who ask repeatedly about this phenomenon. Except they all expect me to have lovely fantasy dreams about cuddly animals and taking care of babies and setting up the nursery. Or at worst, dreams that involve some trepidation such as losing something or showing up somewhere unprepared. Apparently these are considered normal.

My dreams: Not. Normal. Or. Even. Close.

Somewhere early in my second trimester, I woke my husband up and pleaded with him not to sell me to pirates. As in, Arrgh Ye Mateys. Perhaps this was around the time when there was all that news about the Somali pirates on NPR, but still, that does not explain why I was so concerned about the pirates, or why I thought my husband would sell me to them. Or why the pirates had all electric appliances on the old-time wooden ship. But no matter, Huzby assured me that he would not sell his pregnant wife to pirates. This was kind, since if he woke me up in the middle of the night with this request I might have considered the sale.

Other fun dreams: directing an army of Cylons versus an army of Stormtroopers (my Cylons won); something involving the guy from Chuck and Neil Patrick Harris and some sort of stolen technology plot (that was on a Monday night; thanks DVR!); and one dream with fuzzy bunnies, but you do not want to know what became of them (they may have been enemy informants).

No lovely taking care of small creatures or panic because I forgot my toothbrush. Heck, not even any nice fantasies that could ease the nighttime tension.

This came to a peak last night when my dreamscape combined horribly with my nesting instinct. The dream included my husband cooking (as he does frequently, and very well, and which I very much appreciate since too much time on my feet means that my hips take revenge). However, instead of cooking nicely, and normally, he just threw everything at the stove from across the kitchen. Including raw meat, liquids, everything. Then poured more than double the quantity than would fit into the pot of some molasses type liquid over it all. This concoction spread all over our newly renovated kitchen, splattered the just painted walls, and somehow came to form a layer that came up over my ankles. I pleaded with this nightmare version of Huzby to stop, please stop, to which he responded: “Why? No matter what mess I make, it always gets cleaned up.”

Really, Huzby is not like this. Yes, he does seem to think that the recycling fairy takes away the empty beer bottles and plastic containers left on the island, and clothes have a hard time making it to the hamper, but this is not bad. Most of the time he is great.

However, the nightmare was so bad that my moaning woke him up. When he kindly woke me, I not-so-kindly told him to Frak. Off. Repeatedly. Then told him he was mean. And kicked him.

I felt horrible this morning, but some part of me was still screaming, “No! He made a mess in your kitchen! You have to clean that up this morning! Remember the molasses!”

I went down to the kitchen, and no, there was no more mess than one dirty pan and some crumbs from my dinner last night. I made Huzby’s coffee and added a cookie to his work bag to try to make up for my offense.

Also, sorry for kicking you.

But seriously! The dreams! In the past, I rarely remembered my dreams, let alone woke up still in their throes. I really can’t complain – pregnancy hormones are a treat compared to past emotional times and my experience with The Pill. However, I am just going to assume that these are somewhat normal and will pass with time.

Now I have to go clean my kitchen. Because the molasses. It lingers.

Note: Image from Etsy Seller Barking Bird Art, from whom I have two awesome prints and really need to buy more.