Posted by: morrowsl | March 31, 2015

Sweet dreams

Written in January, 2014.

I admit it, I was never the sort of mom who swore she’d throw herself in front of a bus for one or more of her children.  It’s more likely I said I’d throw them!!  Of course, I didn’t mean it literally.  And, thankfully, nobody ever saw the need to call the authorities on me.  In fact, I had at least one friend who would tell her children to call the authorities on her and tell them to hurry anytime they’d confessed to doing something wrong!!  Even I found this disturbing, but in an hysterical sort of way.
I think it’s just a part of motherlove to know that you’ll do whatever it takes to protect your child.  And to teach them to protect themselves.
So many things happen during pregnancy, your body morfs from wood nymph to whale taking your sense of humor and good graces with it.  You become demanding and shrewish.  You attempt to eat things whole – pies and cakes, containers of milk, pickles dipped in pancake batter.  But you also tune in to a small and calmly quiet voice somewhere deep within that sends up signals now and then to let you know how things are progressing in the deep waterworld of your unborn child.  And this is where that instinct to protect takes root and grows.  Like the tree of life, spreading this way and that, until the root ball closes around your womb, forming a chrysalis wherein your greatest hopes and biggest challenges lie sleeping.
I awoke this morning in a panic, heart racing and tears on my lashes.  This is a very rare event for me and normally so unsettling I have already pushed the dream, or nightmare, back down deep inside and slammed the lid closed by the time I come to my senses and realize my surroundings.  Not so this morning.  Even as my feet hit the cold floor and the chilly air sent shockwaves surging from feet to head, I was still wrapped up tight in the despair and heartbreak of what my mind had revealed.

Not long ago, Justin was spending the night with us and as I passed his room on my way back to bed after letting the dogs out for their early morning bark and pee, I heard his little voice call out in the dark, “Mamoo?”, and made a hard left through the doorway.  I always told him, as a growing toddler, that he wasn’t supposed to be out of bed until the sunshine woke up in the morning.  And so, because he loves to hear the things he’s far too old, at six (old, according to him!), to be told anymore, I told him the sunshine was sleeping late and so should he.  He said he’d had a nightmare, but couldn’t tell it to me because then it would be mine and he didn’t want me to be scared.  I slipped under the blanket and tucked him in close to me and told him Mamoos are made of much stronger stuff than nightmares can defeat, but he kept his worries to himself and faded back into sleep.

And so.  My own nightmare is something I’m working through and I’m fairly certain the content was simply a way to get me thinking on how to resolve the most recent of storms that have pummeled my family.  The empty shells wherein my own little butterflies grew are almost turned to dust with age and yet the pull is stronger than the moon on the tides and I feel the need to encircle them and buffer them from all harm.
I brought my dream to friends and shared it because I believe that, once the details are released to the day, they are no longer a danger to anyone.

I must teach Justin to do the same with his.

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