Last night I dreamt my wife was in labor. (Normal, after-9-months labor, not labor now, which would be at 6 months and would be beyond worrisome.) Even in the dreams, it took what felt like days, and we never even got to any really painful, drippy parts. Unless you count when (in the dream) my wife fell down trying to put on pants, which I’m sure is rooted in the time, on my birthday, when she threw out her back trying to put on pants.
The really odd thing about this particular dream set was that it recurred many times throughout the night. Normally, if I wake up for some reason, when I go back to sleep, I’ll start dreaming about something else. Only occasionally will I have a repeat dream in the same night, and this dream kept coming back after every brief awakening. (The whole thing was very disorienting; I woke up at 12:52am and went to the bathroom convinced that it was 7:30 am and I had better start breakfast. I was on my way down to the kitchen when I caught view of my wife’s clock out of the corner of my eye. Anyone who has woken up at 5am and realized they still have 90 minutes of sleep to go has the sense, but not the extent, of my exultation.)
This dream even included one of those difficult-to-explain situations in which I was explaining to someone about the dream, as if I was awake, and the other dreams had been dreams-within-dreams. Do you follow? Yeah, me neither.
Anyway, the basic plot, or as much of it as I remember: Sarah and I are on the way to the hospital, with half of my family following behind us. We get inside the building, which is a large atrium-type thing that they would have built in the 70s (think: “Logan’s Run” interiors (bonus: Jenny Agutter)), with plants and wood and stucco. It’s unclear where we need to be, but what appears to be an information desk is near the door, unmanned. My thinking is, in very non-masculine form, “Someone will return to man the desk from whatever menial task they are doing, and we can ask them where, exactly we need to go.” Sarah’s thinking is, in very non-feminine form, “I’m going to go wander off and see if I can find the birthin’ area or sumthin’.” And she walks off to the right. As she does so, a nice young lady appears at the desk, and I ask her where to go to have babies freed from their maternal gulags, and she points in the direction my wife is going, which of course results in Sarah giving me that look that says, “What, you didn’t believe me? You ass. I told you so.” It is worth noting that I have never, ever, not even once in my life, given Sarah this look, despite the fact that I am frequently right, particularly in the fields of computer and automobile operation.
It is eventually revealed to us that we have to go towards some kind of apartment building, in which apparently we will be renting a condo for a few days for the purpose of delivering a child. This small condo includes a delivery room, some kind of dressing area, and a kitchenette. At this point, I woke up and went to the bathroom.
The next part of the dream is not remembered as vividly, although it’s the part in which I’m explaining to someone about the previous dream. “It was weird, man, we were gonna give birth in a condo! Dreams, dude. Cuh-RAY-zee.” At this point, I woke up because, as I recall, a cat farted in my hair.
When I went back to sleep, Sarah and I were in the condo, getting dressed. Apparently her contractions had stopped, so we were getting ready to return home. I remember putting on a belt. My wife was attempting to put on some kind of very stretchy pants, but she nothing on which to sit while doing so, so when she tried to get the second leg in, she fell down on her butt. It occurred to me that a vastly pregnant woman should not be falling down, so I freaked out a bit and ran for the doctor, at which point I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.
I won’t ask you to tell me what all this means (it means my wife is pregnant and I’m a mess), but I would like to report that Jon Stewart’s wife had a baby this weekend, which I didn’t find out until I watched the Daily Show this morning. Are Jon Stewart and I connected through an invisible thread of comedy and pregnancy? I leave that for you to decide.
