Recurring Dream

I had the baby dream again.

I dreamt I had a baby. I was both in love with the baby and ambivalent about its presence in my life. My urge to protect and nurture it was fierce. My longing to have only myself to care for, persistent.

I’d wager that most mothers secretly feel similarly conflicted. I did when both R. and E. were born: deliriously happy over their arrival and terrified about the shrinking slice of time I would have for myself. It is selfish, and human.

The equation has shifted as they have grown older. My love for them has deepened—if that’s possible—and it is easier to carve out time for myself, because they are rarely home. Yet, the conflict of tending to their needs and to my own still stirs guilt.

Which brings me to the baby dream. I usually have this dream when I’m worried about R. or E, which I was last night.

R. called yesterday, sounding blue, which is practically enough to stimulate lactation letdown. Meanwhile E., who had complained of feeling fatigued before his lacrosse game, had uncharacteristic circles beneath his eyes.

I must have gone to bed worried about both of them.

No matter how old kids get, worry is a permanent part of parenthood; which means that carving out time alone—even psychic time—is always a negotiation.

The more I think of the baby in my dream, needing love and care, the more I realize it was I.