One of my closest girlfriends texted me a few days ago about a dream she had recently. In the dream she was pregnant, and when she woke up later that morning she felt sad. The fact that she, in fact, was not pregnant at all, even though she and her husband hope to delay starting a family for a few more years, was a disheartening discovery.
I have had this dream, or one like it, a few times in my adult life too. In my dreams I am either pregnant, cradling my round, life-filled belly, or sitting in a bed of white sheets and blankets holding my newborn, always a girl. And when I wake I feel profoundly sad, knowing that I am not a mother and that I did not give birth to a beautiful daughter who I can snuggle in my arms. One time this feeling of loss left me in tears.
It’s strange, these dreams. Perhaps they represent simply a desire to create or start something new, as I’ve read in books about the meaning of dreams. Or maybe they’re reminders that our biological clocks have begun ticking. Or perhaps they are little glimpses into the future, a little snapshot of the years to come. Or they might be the desire for motherhood that hides deep in our unconscious minds.
Whatever these dreams mean, I like them. I like that brief moment of believing the dream is real, that I am a new mother. I hope that someday these dreams will come true, that I’ll wake up and find that my reality matches the dream.