I was sitting in the backseat of my car with a lifelong friend, waiting for my husband to finish his quick trip inside the store. My small Iowa hometown looked just like it always had, no stoplights and no traffic.
Suddenly, a man from my church here in Georgia stealthily slid into the backseat and shot some kind of drug into the base of our heads, both my friend’s and my own. A pistol with some kind of silencer attached followed and soon we were both bleeding profusely from the skull, but were somehow still alive.
Just then, my husband returned to the vehicle, along with a friend from college in Georgia. Once I’d pointed out the gaping wounds in our two heads, they panicked. Eventually I calmed them down enough to call for an ambulance. My dad met us in the hospital and encouraged me to change my story so my attacker wouldn’t be punished. Keep in mind, my dad’s a police officer.
About three months in and I’m starting to realize what all the fuss is about. Pregnancy dreams are so vivid and real and yet so very bizarre. Friends I haven’t seen in years are popping up from my subconscious and doing the strangest things.
Just the other night, I dreamt that my husband and I had just finished closing on the house we’re buying when my third cousin — who I haven’t even spoken to in at least three years — called to tell us we’d been stationed elsewhere and had 60 days to move. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought and worried about that possibility before, but the delivery was a little odd, considering the third cousin who called isn’t even in the military. Last I heard he was working in a factory somewhere in Iowa.
On the bright side, for someone like me who’s recently become so fond of sleep, as I hear pregnant women often do, every time I close my eyes I enter some new adventure. It beats the monotony of all-day sickness — because I’ve rejected the notion of morning sickness — and household chores.