Full disclosure, I am in a weird head space today, my friends. This post is basically a stream of consciousness, and if it feels like it ends on a minor chord (or, to the non-musical folk, if it feels unresolved at the end), well, my apologies, but also, that’s pretty accurate.

Last night I had a vivid and very long, stretched out dream that I was pregnant, with a baby girl, and was having a quiet and calm and lovely day and evening spending time with my mother and bonding together over the new baby to come and how wonderful everything was. All that conventional good stuff that one would expect in such a situation. There was even a whole rosy glow sort of aura to the whole thing. A dream chock full of warm fuzziness.

In short, I had a dream about all that should have been. And naturally, I woke up feeling really dismayed by it.

Anyone who’s read my blog by now knows that I have one child, a daughter. She just turned five. What some people may not know is that from the moment I learned I was pregnant with her, I kept that fact a secret from anybody who didn’t interact with me in real life (because it would eventually have been impossible to hide). I didn’t make a fun announcement on social media. I didn’t mention it online at all. My entire pregnancy was overshadowed by the palpable fear that my mother would find out and make demands to which she had no right. I remember initially feeling sure I was pregnant with a boy, which I suppose was wishful thinking. I felt this existential sort of dread about having a girl, because my mother had expressed to me growing up that a mother-daughter relationship was something to be thrilled about, something very special. How ironic that she got it so fucked up; how terrified I was to fuck it up in turn. Thankfully, from what people have told me, I haven’t quite fucked it up yet. So far, so good.

I’ve had “should have been” dreams every so often for years now, ever since I truly shut and locked and bolted and barricaded the doors of communication between my mother and myself. Either it’s been a long time since I’ve had one or I just don’t remember, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so saddened by it. I’m sure it’s a mark of how every part of me is recognizing that the “should have been” is all I’ll ever have. My mother hasn’t died yet, but she will, probably sooner rather than later. My sources tell me she’s in the hospital ICU once again at this time. We’ll see what happens. That news and this dream have essentially put me in autopilot mode today. I’m functional, but I’m not great company.

The truth of the matter is, though, that while I didn’t have a “conventional” pregnancy, whatever the hell that might mean, I was surrounded by the right people. People who loved me, cared about my well-being, supported my decisions, and trusted that I made those decisions with the intention of protecting myself and my family. I didn’t have a rosy picture of my mother by my side taking care of me, but by no means was the picture any less rosy.

I had an unconventional pregnancy so that my daughter could have a more conventional life, one I certainly never had. She’s thriving. I suppose that must mean I am too, in some way.