Friday, February 15, 2013

The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

Last week, I had a dream. I dreamed I was reading a fictitious blog. The author had recently checked out an audio book from the library. It was a 17-CD book entitled, "My Name Is Joseph," and it was the story of a Jewish boy growing up during World War II. In this blog post, the woman blogger was lamenting that she had lost 5 of the CD's. She had to buy the whole set in order to replace the library's copy.

She bought the set and gave it to the library. The next day, she found the five missing CD's.

The last line of her blog was, "I wept in Yiddish."

I woke up giggling. I thought the blog author was witty for ending her blog that way, and then I realized I was the witty one.

My husband didn't interpret my dream that way. He took the much more literal interpretation: "The night before, we went to the library. You checked out a book on the Holocaust. We are always paying library fines. And you always have weird dreams when you're pregnant."

This is true. My husband endures my retelling of dreams like one might endure a visit to the dentist or a seminarian's first sermon: "This is going to be painful, but let's just get it over with."

You would think he would have at least been grateful. Most of my pregnancy dreams involve rescuing him from some ridiculous scenario he's gotten himself into (one particularly vivid dream involved me rescuing him and our friend in the Marines from extreme danger in Iraq: THAT dream really wore me out).

And I'm not sure exactly what other interpretation could be taken from this dream. I mean, probably I could come up with something dreadfully mystical and heretical and borderline cooky, but honestly I'm too tired for any of that.

So we'll go with his interpretation. We did visit the library, we do regularly purchase library materials, and I am pregnant (so ... oops! when I assuredly told Kendra I wasn't. And also, Kendra? I'm so glad Rick is out of Iraq. Rescues are so tricky there!).

18 weeks. Due in July. Party of one.

And, please. "I wept in Yiddish" ... that's the best last line of a dream ever.

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