The Entry I Was Going to Write Yesterday, But Was Too Shook Up To Do SoAs I mentioned in my previous post, I am severely sleep-deprived -- not earth shattering news, especially to those who suffer from insomnia. Many, many people suffer as I do, and I’m sure they are sympathetic, understand exactly how terrible this affliction can be. But there is one difference between how my brain handles sleep deprivation and how most others’ do -- if I am lucky enough to drift off for a few precious moments, I always -- always -- dream about giving birth.
The other night was no exception. I’d spent most the night fitfully dozing off and on, comatose, body paralyzed with exhaustion, yet aware of the cat purring on my chest, her nose-air fluttering my eyelashes (she enjoys sleeping on my chest, her furry face perhaps a half inch from mine -- I do believe she wants to climb inside my mouth, which is a terrifying thought, one that may be attributing to my insomnia), and during one of my rare moments of total unconsciousness, I dreamt.
I was heavily pregnant, lumbering along in a field of corn, wearing a ripped Sex Pistols T-shirt and Doc Martins, when suddenly, the urge to push overwhelmed me. At that moment, I knew I had to get to a hospital, so, of course, I found myself walking the corridors of a maternity ward, my ass hanging out of a too small gown. I was ignored by the nurses and doctors floating past me (I’m always ignored in my birthing dreams), despite my cries for help. So I lay on the floor, right there in front of David Bowie and John Kerry, and began to grunt like a wild boar, pushing with all my might. I was so over the whole humiliation thing, considering I’d done this maybe three hundred times before.
And miraculously, without pain, without blood or fluid or flying F-words (why can’t real-life birth be this easy?), I produced a squalling infant at the feet of David Bowie. He nodded and smiled as if to say “good job,” then promptly disappeared. At this point, I had no reason to care about John Kerry’s whereabouts, for I was upset that the baby was still attached to me, the umbilical cord swaying, undulating. Due to being ignored by hospital staff, I realized that I had to somehow sever the cord myself, and I was filled with revulsion, for I had no cutting implements. I did not want to bite the cord, did not want to touch that alien thing with my bare fingers, no way in hell. I had no choice but to get up, baby cradled in my arms, and go in search of a pair of scissors.
As luck would have it, there happened to be a pair sticking out of the wall. Oh joy! I set about the task ahead with some trepidation, but managed, with eyes closed, to swiftly separate myself from my child. It was then that I felt comfortable enough to revel in my baby’s beauty, to take in every inch of her sweet fatness and rosebud skin, her downy blonde hair and perfect little fingers, and oh, I did. I did. And upon discovering the tiny cloven feet, I began to scream.
Baby Girl was not as she first appeared to be -- Baby Girl was in fact, Baby Cow.
Evidently, I was the unwitting guinea pig in a revolutionary gene-splicing research project, and this excited the heretofore inattentive staff, so much so, there was a great celebration with balloons and a marching band, and grotesquely made-up clowns.
I woke in tears, the dear scent of my baby cow lingering, and I wept even harder as I entered full consciousness. The memory of her haunted me throughout the rest of the day, and even as I write this, I miss her.
Creepy? You bet. But she was my baby cow, dammit. You couldn't possibly understand.