I’ve never been one for sweet dreams. Which is kind of ironic given my daytime personality – I’m cheerful, right? But as the ubiquitous 47 year-old homely Brit sings: “But the tigers come at night…” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY – in case you’re not one of the 19 million)
So having a baby doesn’t change the fact that I have strange nightmares, but it gives them a special twist. So far, I’ve dreamt that: the baby is covered in ice and I have to unfreeze him with my tongue; that the baby’s head cracked off into the shape of a porcelain plate and I needed to replace it; that my baby had been switched with another baby who escaped from China; that I was climbing barbed wire while trying to hold the baby on my back.
Apparently, Hugh inherited my predeliction for strange dreams. Sometimes he smiles in his sleep. But more often, his breathing quickens and his face twists as if in pain and he makes tiny meeping sounds. What could he possibly have as fodder for bad dreams? Waiting 2 minutes for a bottle? The wind in his face? Too warm in the car seat? Or maybe, as someone once told me, babies are un-dreaming the memories from their past lives.