Primal Instinct

I'm a scaredy-cat as it is.

I don't need another reason to carry mace on my person or imagine a scenario in which I'll need to stab the keys to my car into the eye of some predator attacking me in some empty, late-night parking garage.

And yeah, sure, my fears are probably exacerbated by one too many Sunday Law and Order: SVU marathons, but let's face it, the real-life stuff is just as terrifying.

There are bad people out there, and they do bad things, and good people get hurt, and, well, I'm prepared. That's all.

I won't take an attacker lying down, and I avoid putting myself in situations in which I'll need to defend myself by remembering to first go for the eyes, nose, and groin.

But then I had a baby.

A little, defenseless baby who thinks the world is all sunshine and rainbows and breast-milk, and, well, who am I to tell her that there are bad people out there who do bad things, causing good people to get hurt?

I'm happy she's so tiny and innocent, and I hope she stays like that for a good bit longer.

But me? Any last shred of innocence I had is gone.

Because now, I have even more of a reason to use my hair clip as a shank and stab any criminal who dares to so such as leer at my baby.

I am Mom, hear me roar, you know?

The funny thing is, I'm a pretty trusting person. I'm not one to glare at a stranger who peeks in the baby carrier in my grocery cart just a little to long.

And then, last night, I had a dream.

***

In what should honestly be classified as a nightmare, my husband discovered he had a long lost cousin who'd spent 20 years in prison.

For committing crimes against a child.

Oh yes, his cousin was a pedophile.

But in the dream, the hubs had re-connected with the guy and felt bad for him. He told me, "Everyone deserves a second chance" and then made me invite the guy over for dinner the night after he was released from prison.

During dinner, the man keeps staring at baby Ella.

I glare at him, and after the dinner, I tell my husband that I don't trust his cousin, and that he's not allowed in our house.

I feel better now that we've established that, but the next day, my husband goes to work, and his cousin tries to get in our house.

The scenario continues for a few days, until, one evening, I finally fall asleep, and the cousin comes in and takes Ella.

I wake up, find her gone, freak out, and...

...then woke up in real life to my real-life baby, laying in the pack-n-play attached to our real-life bed, crying to be real-life nursed.

I, too, was crying right along with her. I was hysterical, in fact.

Even though it had been a dream, it had seemed so real; I was terrified. Furthermore, it was, quite literally, my worst nightmare, played out before my very (dream) eyes.

I think most mothers have fears of someone taking their baby. And, worse yet, someone hurting their baby.

But to see it play out like that struck me with such fear - a fear that I'd never felt before.

Being a mother is primal. Protecting our babies is instinctual. I have no idea what I'd do if any of the above actually came true, but I can tell you, I'd be a whole other kind of woman.

A hair-clip shank and my sharp set of keys would be the least of that kidnapping pedophiles' worries.

I honestly don't think I could be held responsible for what I'd do to him.

No one messes with my baby.

***

Did having a baby bring up a whole new set of aggressive, primal instincts in your? Share below.

Happy Monday, everyone!

And He's Finally Caught On

It's completely normal to have pregnancy dreams.

Or so I'm told.

I've had my fair share of them.

But recently, mostly because I can no longer sleep through the night, the pregnancy dreams have stopped.

Apparently, though, my husband's taken up the slack: He's been having sympathy pregnancy dreams.

Last night, he had a dream we came home from dinner one night to find another family had moved into our home.

During what must have been a several-day-long supper, the other family had re-arranged our entire house, gotten rid of all our furniture and possessions, and moved themselves and all their wordly items right in.

The best part was, in what must have been a stroke of dream-genius rationale, the hubs and I agreed to go along with all this. In fact, we simply accepted the fact that we'd not only have to live and peacefully co-exist with this new family of squatters in our home, but we also were fully OK with the fact that they'd displaced all our stuff.

Until, in the dream, my husband spotted the final straw.

On our fridge, the family of squatters had removed all our family photos and put up pictures of themselves. In the process, they'd also apparently thrown out our "weekly schedule," or a calendar of the weeks' events, meals, appointments, and chores I keep updated and posted on our fridge at all times, so that the hubs and I know exactly what to expect and what to do that week.

The fact that our little weekly "brain" was missing finally broke my poor husband in his dream.

He was devastated. He was furious. He kept walking about shouting at the family of squatters, "I can't believe you got rid of that! Now how are we supposed to know what we're supposed to do every day?"

It was almost like he was me or something.

***

When he told me this dream upon waking, I couldn't help but smile.

Normally, I'm Type A to his Type Whatever.

I'm OCD to his Oh Well.

And I'm overly regimented to his overly laid-back.

We make a good team, but sometimes it hurts me when he doesn't get how hard I work to keep things organized, efficient, and fluidly running around here.

And he gets annoyed that I can't always "let go," loosen up, and live without a to-do list.

Apparently, though, his subconscious is starting to agree with me.

Because in his dream, the man was totally OK living without his beloved flat-screen TV. But our handy-dandy to-do list/calendar combo?

He needed it. He wanted it. He had no idea what to do without it.

He's become one with the force, my friends.

And I couldn't be more proud.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

And The Weirdness Keeps On Comin'

Sleeping while pregnant is a whole new adventure.

Sometimes I simply struggle through the night, whether it's because my hips are hurting; my back is strained, or because I am simply so over sleeping on my left side for the bazillion-th time in a row.

Sometimes, despite my fatigue, I can't even begin fall asleep, for all the baby thoughts zooming around my brain, and the paranoia that - whoa nelly! - this pregnancy train is moving fast, and I'm not quite sure we're ready to disembark yet.

And sometimes, I pass out so coldly and soundly that I wake up as if from a drug-induced haze - my body sore and my mind confused by the deep, dark, intense sleep I've never experienced before.

Those nights are good nights, at least. I've slept like the dead, and I know it.

Except for one tiny little problem.

The dreams. Oh, the dreams.

I have had some of the most off-the-wall, crazy, helter-skelter dreams you could ever imagine.

Many of them are scary, too, filled with death and murder and subterfuge and constant danger that lurks around every corner.

It's like an episode of Law & Order: SVU up in here at least two or three times a week.

But occasionally, I get an even odder dream experience. Not one that is at all nightmarish but still seemingly bizarre.

Case in point: My dream last night, in which I was 30 weeks pregnant (just like I am today.)

In my dream, I lived alone, in one of the most gorgeous houses I've ever seen. In fact, it greatly resembled a Southern mansion, with a free-standing spiral staircase and grand, shiny wooden floors, much like something you'd see in Savannah or Charleston.

I owned the home, pregnant and huge, all by myself.

I'd been left in the home by the baby's father, who, in my dream, was not my real-life husband, but was in fact the man I dated before him (i.e., not me or my family's favorite person.)

In my dream, the guy had walked out on me, though I didn't seem that upset about it.

Which is why, apparently, my mother felt the need to step in. In my dream, she kept encouraging me, 30 weeks pregnant, to date.

Sanely, I kept putting her off.

Until, finally, she actually convinced a man to pick me up for a blind date at my gorgeous home, but only after giving me 10 minutes warning that he was coming.

So, in my panic, I did what any hugely pregnant woman would do: I tried to smash on my pre-maternity clothes.

I ended up choosing a flowy, floral, yellow knee-length skirt and a burgundy, knit, buttoned vest.

With nothing underneath.

I actually walked downstairs to meet my date with my belly bulging out from under my vest and hanging over the waistband of the skirt.

Classy.

What made it all the classier was who my date, in fact, was.

Showing connections I didn't know she had, my mother, it seems, had scored me a date with a former famous quarterback from my alma mater, the University of Florida. (I will not name him here, based on the extremely off chance he or anyone he knows reads this. Because, honestly, I would die of embarrassment. But trust me, you know who he is. He's got commercials and plays in the pros now. And, dear heavens, he's cute as a button - though younger than me and totally inappropriate for me on so many levels.)

Anyways, there he stood in my dream, at the end of my spiral staircase, bearing flowers and grinning.

Because I'm totally sure it's most young pro ball-player's dream to take out a fatso pregnant women carrying another man's baby.

Anyways, he was into it. So much so that, on our date - we went boating, for some odd reason - he proposes to me and suggests that, once my baby is born, he adopt the baby as his own.

I, of course, being of clear and sound mind, say yes.

Like this was totally normal. Like I wasn't about to get engaged, 30 weeks pregnant, on a first date with a famous guy, set up by my mother.

We immediately set about making wedding plans while sitting on some rickety boat dock. We've just decided that we must have a red-velvet groom's cake, when...

...I finally woke up.

Sweating. Confused. So disoriented I actually considered calling my mother and saying, "Do you actually know 'Famous Florida Player'?"

It took me a while to unravel it all, in fact. The dream had seemed so real that I was actually a bit sad, upon awakening, that my husband didn't seem to even play a part in it.

Poor guy. My Dream Self didn't even know him.

Instead, I sat there, staring at only my dog (my husband had already left for work) blushing with embarrassment. Seriously, I was beet red. My own pregnancy dream had shocked the pants off me.

I was, in fact, ashamed of everything about my dream - my apparent indiscretions, my inability to make smart choices, my apparent lack of maternity fashion sense. (Seriously, an ill-fitting, burgundy vest?)

I couldn't believe myself. It was almost enough to make me wish for pregnancy dreams of yore, where men were chasing me through the streets, wielding knives and guns.

But, unfortunately, it was too late.

I had dreamed what I had dreamed. My subconscious had spoken.

And apparently, I was one badly dressed, home-owning, pregnant hussy, jones-ing for a famous husband and a baby daddy.

Heaven help me.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Dark, German-Chocolate Dreams

Last week, I woke up in a cold sweat.

I'd spent all night chasing a killer.

A killer on the Navy base here who was invading other couple's homes and murdering them.

Which is why I took it upon myself to solve this heinous crime.

Turns out, I'm one excellent sleuth.

I discovered, with my amazing deductive skills, that this random man I'd been tracking was killing people in order to steal their pastries and desserts.

Which totally explains why the killer never ventured to my house, seeing as I can cook up a main dish, but I have the baking skills of a cat.

Anyways, I decided to confront the murderer - smart choice, right? - which basically led me to approach the man in my own kitchen and scream at him, "German chocolate cake? GERMAN CHOCOLATE CAKE? That's why you killed all those people? For some stupid German chocolate cake?"

I didn't stop until I woke up yelling out the name of the rich chocolate dessert over and over again, staring straight into the face of my very alarmed dog.

Seriously, it was just a dream. And the second weirdest dream I've ever had.

Until a few days later, when I dreamed a good friend of mine, Lauren, was engaged to a rich, old-as-sin plantation owner's son.

While attending the wedding, the plantation owner himself decides to confide in me that he's been trafficking humans for years, keeping them locked in a cell buried under the plantation itself.

I'm so freaked out that my friend is marrying into this disturbing family that I try to find the bride-to-be and warn her.

But I can't do that because the crazy old human-trafficker decides to chase me with a sawed-off shotgun.

Until I wake up, unharmed and, again, staring the dog.

Morbid, isn't it? For a relatively safe, happy woman to dream about dessert-coveting murderers and sick human-traffickers?

Either that, or it's a sign I need to lay off the desserts and the plantation tours - two things, I'll admit, that have been on the upswing since we moved to Charleston five months ago.

Decisions, decisions.

***

So, tell me, what do you make of these dreams?

And, happy Monday, everyone!

Not Me! Monday: The "I'm Dreaming Again!" Edition

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. Head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have NOT been doing this week.

***

I did NOT have another wild and crazy dream last night.

In which I was a NOT lawyer...

A prosecutor, actually, if you do NOT want to get technical...

Who was NOT prosecuting Jon and Kate Gosselin for strangling little children.

source

Because, oh yeah, that's NOT creepy at all.

Actually, this dream did NOT lack the same detail as last week's polygamist kidnapper debacle, but I did NOT wake up and remember enough to know that Kate Gosselin does NOT turn to me at one point - in a heated moment of public courtroom drama, of course - and say, "If I knew you better, I'd come after your children, too."

Oh sweet heavens. She did NOT just go there about me and my imaginary future babies!

Still, I was NOT a little mad at this lawyer edition of Dream Brittany because she did NOT say anything back to Ms. Kate in retort. Or rebuttal. Or whatever you lawyers call it.

Still, despite her lack of a witty come-back, Dream Brittany did NOT also look fabulous, 6-feet-tall, and svelte in a navy blue power suit.

Apparently, she was NOT letting her run-way-model body and imaginary Chanel blazer and skirt do the talking for her.

This, apparently, is NOT what happens when you appear to have leapt right from the images of Law & Order: SVU, with your fabulous physique and a designer-labeled power suit.

Obviously, I wouldn't know. So thank goodness my new-found of habit of dreaming does NOT reveal these little life's truths to me.

Unfortunately, though, I did NOT wake up before the verdict on Gosselin v. The State was passed.

So who knows if we did NOT actually convict those mean old reality-television-parents-turned-child-murderers?

Who knows why I'm NOT all of sudden dreaming like a crazy woman these days?

And who knows why I do NOT actually lack a run-way body and a Chanel suit?

Life's little mysteries, I tell you.

***

Sorry for the quick, rather-confusing post. I've not been sleeping well these past few nights - nightmares aside - and I've also been struggling with on-and-off headaches, along with some odd aches and pains.

I'm probably just fighting a bit of a bug, brought on by stress and fatigue.

Luckily, today is a national holiday, and we don't have school.

So this teacher thanks you, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., for this wonderful and important holiday in your honor!

Happy (Not Me!) Monday, everyone!

Now it's back to bed for Dream Brittany.

Bedding down with the Dream Team: Polgyamists, students, and my red-headed toddler

Before I launch into what might possibly be the single most ridiculous post to date here at Living in the Moment, let me set two things straight:

First off, I rarely, if ever, dream. Or rather, if I'm dreaming, by the time I re-gain consciousness and screech awake to my early alarm, I don't remember a wink of it.

Second, in the occasional dream I remember once every three years or so, I'm rarely, if ever, doing anything exciting. My dreams consist of me pushing my way through a grocery store, only to find - horror of horrors! - that I'm unable to find the dried pineapple.

Or, in the most vivid of my dream scenarios, I'm in my classroom, and all my kids are screaming for my attention and refusing to learn the lesson at hand. Which, basically, is like watching a home movie of my life because - let's face it - that's exactly what happens to me almost every day.

My brain in dreamland? Not exactly record-breaking.

When it comes down to it, I'm no creative artist.

Or so I thought, until last night, when - it has to be said - I went to bed like I do every night, exhausted and strung out on folic acid, Vitamin C, and fish oil.

I promptly passed out and began to slip into dream world...

Dream Brittany awakens to find her husband is gone. He's not next to her in bed. He's not in the rest of the house, but - uh-oh - his car, running shoes, keys, wallet, and cell phone are all in their normal places of rest.

Dream Brittany becomes a little disconcerted, but doesn't freak out until she ventures into her nursery. (Yes, apparently Dream Brittany has a baby.)

It is in this moment that Dream Brittany realizes that her 18-month-old baby boy - who is fair-skinned and carrot-topped (which is odd because neither my husband nor I have those features) - has been taken out of his crib.

Now, Dream Brittany's panicking. She's running around the house crying for her red-headed child and missing husband.

So she does what seems to be the most obvious choice considering the circumstances:

She calls one of her 12th-grade students. Because heaven knows, when panicked, calling teenage boys works better than 911 every time.

During this phone conversation with her student, Dream Brittany finds out that his little 10-year-old brother has turned up missing as well.

Drama ensues.

Dream Brittany and Dream Student hem and haw about what to do, and again, Dream Brittany shows unseasonable calm and expertise when she suggests they call - you guessed it - another student; this time an 11th-grade girl she teaches.

So after Dream Brittany rallies the troops - her Dream Students - they all head out all over town searching for their missing sibling, spouse and red-headed child, respectively.

Or, rather, the Dream Students do most of searching while dragging Dream Brittany around while she has a bit of break-down, which was characterized in the dream by the fact that she kept calling her mother and wailing on her cell phone that "My Baby Loves are gone, Mom! And. I. Don't. Know. What. To. Doooooooooo!!! WAAAA!"

Finally, some ominous elderly citizen points whining Dream Brittany and the Dream Students - who from this point forward shall be referred to as the "Dream Team" - toward a section of the town they had yet to search.

And just like that, the Dream Team follows the citizen's outstretched finger to the end of his block, where, smack dab in the middle of Florida, there's a desert town.

Literally, a desert, complete with large shanty-like houses.

The Dream Team wanders close enough to realize they've stumbled upon some polygamist group - denoted by the fact that the women were all dressed just like those polygamist mothers who had their children seized in Texas last year. (This is not meant to be offensive. In my dream, the Dream Team and I seemed to implicitly understand that these were the neighborhood's friendly bunch of polygamists. What can I say? Dream Brittany had a mind of her own.)

Only when we right upon the polygamist town do we notice cowboy-look-alikes are pacing toward us, bearing machetes, no less.

Yes, big, bold machetes. Coming right at us.

Apparently, the Dream Team wasn't welcome there.

Because - duh! - these polygamists had kidnapped our family members.

I think it was the machetes that clued the Dream Team into what was going on, don't you?

So anyways, Dream Brittany, seeing the machetes and sensing imminent danger, does what any normal woman would do when facing death, kidnapping, and a machete-barrier between her and her family.

She called her mommy.

Yes, she called her mom and cried, begged, and pleaded for help.

And Dream Brittany's mom - like any good superhero - answered the call.

In fact, seconds later, Dream Brittany's mom came hustling down to that polygamist ranch and went into a back room with the machete-bearing cowboys (because apparently, my mother has no fear. And I have no shame, letting her go in there, with those machete-bearing men, unarmed and alone.)

Still, minutes later, she returned, smugly smiling.

Apparently, Dream Mommy had brokered a deal.

Because right behind Dream Mommy was Dream Brittany's husband, holding her red-headed toddler.

The hubs - obviously starved and tortured after hours in polygamist slavery - was skin and bones. His emaciated state so upset Dream Brittany that she begins to openly sob, in front of God, her students, and arms-bearing polygamists.

Upon further examining his skeletal appearance, Dream Brittany then gets all dramatic and, quite literally, falls to the ground, kissing her husband and holding her baby and crying, crying, crying.

She's so happy! She's so relieved! She's so...awake.

And just like that, I woke up sweating at 3:45 a.m.

Desperately panicked. Heart beating. Feeling around for my husband's body to make sure he was there.

Luckily, he was. And luckier still, Dream Brittany was gone.

But Real-Life Brittany was still significantly freaked out.

To be perfectly honest, I don't believe in interpreting dreams. But I'm fairly sure that what is on our minds and hearts and bodies can affect what we dream. Or I'm assuming so, since - until last night - I'd considered myself quite the dream novice, as I've explained.

So my question is: Where did all that come from? What brought that on? And why did I finally experience a dream I can recall in perfect detail?

But, most importantly, do you really think my first-born will be a red-head?

***

I'll be honest. I debated not sharing this with you all. Because seriously, how weird am I? I'm a little scared of myself right now.

So if you're still stickin' around after today's little trip into my subconscious, I really appreciate it.

I'll tone down the crazy around here tomorrow, I promise.

Until then, Happy Thursday everyone!