if you want to go to heaven lay upon my breast
Last night in my dream I had a sudden compulsion to start moving rocks that lined the edges of my driveway, even though it was dark and there was a chill in the air and I was wearing my nightgown.
I started digging where the rocks had been, and I uncovered pockets full of change - like, tons of change - as well as random little trinkets and toys. The twelve-year old girl who lives next door and calls me "Aunt" wandered over to watch what I was doing, and I talked with her pleasantly although I was worried she would try to claim the money. Like maybe she had buried it there with my niece when my parents owned the house. But she did not.
I started scooping out the change and putting it into a pile when a man walked up the driveway to speak with me. I don't remember what we spoke about, but soon I heard my son crying upstairs. I went and picked him up from his crib and carried him in my arms like a baby back downstairs to the driveway, and then I began to breast-feed him. I was prepared to defend myself for still nursing my three-year-old (though in waking life this is not something I support), but the man didn't say anything about it. We just continued to talk while I nursed.
Apparently I'm feeling defensive; but what really stays with me from this dream is the physicality of nursing my son. How vividly my body remembers that. What a visceral, wonderful, bittersweet memory, out of nowhere.
I have been very frustrated with the Kinglet lately. I know that he is only three, and three-year-olds are tough, but what I see in his behavior is only the continuation and maturation of the personality he has always had. He is a stubborn, independent, reckless, boy that loves me well but has no fear of me. I worry that I will not be able to stop him from running into traffic, or off a cliff, or into bad choices. I fear that he will rush forward and hurt himself, or others no matter how hard I try to make him stop and look first. I fear that, either way, he will break my heart.
I started digging where the rocks had been, and I uncovered pockets full of change - like, tons of change - as well as random little trinkets and toys. The twelve-year old girl who lives next door and calls me "Aunt" wandered over to watch what I was doing, and I talked with her pleasantly although I was worried she would try to claim the money. Like maybe she had buried it there with my niece when my parents owned the house. But she did not.
I started scooping out the change and putting it into a pile when a man walked up the driveway to speak with me. I don't remember what we spoke about, but soon I heard my son crying upstairs. I went and picked him up from his crib and carried him in my arms like a baby back downstairs to the driveway, and then I began to breast-feed him. I was prepared to defend myself for still nursing my three-year-old (though in waking life this is not something I support), but the man didn't say anything about it. We just continued to talk while I nursed.
Apparently I'm feeling defensive; but what really stays with me from this dream is the physicality of nursing my son. How vividly my body remembers that. What a visceral, wonderful, bittersweet memory, out of nowhere.
I have been very frustrated with the Kinglet lately. I know that he is only three, and three-year-olds are tough, but what I see in his behavior is only the continuation and maturation of the personality he has always had. He is a stubborn, independent, reckless, boy that loves me well but has no fear of me. I worry that I will not be able to stop him from running into traffic, or off a cliff, or into bad choices. I fear that he will rush forward and hurt himself, or others no matter how hard I try to make him stop and look first. I fear that, either way, he will break my heart.