I truly do believe that there is something to be learned from one's dreams. Theoretically. I know that I dream often, but rarely do I remember the details of those dreams beyond the actual transition from sleep to wake. Unless, of course, they are menopause dreams. These I remember in detail - pinpoint-sharp detail. I can't even begin to decipher what these dreams mean, other than the fact that my brain is slogging through some hormone-induced insanity. Read on and analyze:
Dream #1, September 13, 2007
I am in my house (which is not my house at all - the layout and furniture are completely different, but it is my house in the dream nonetheless) with a dear high school friend and my two daughters. The day is dawning and I somehow sense that my girls may be coming down with some virus they've picked up at school. My friend, we'll call her Molly, meanders downstairs to make some coffee and I follow slowly, hearing the girls chattering away in the kitchen and knowing that I need to get them ready for school.
As I enter the kitchen I see the door to the pantry wide open and the girls each with a bag of animal cookies (the pink and white frosted ones with candy sprinkles) in their hands, munching away. Worried that Molly will think I'm some sort of lunatic for letting my children eat cookies for breakfast, I snatch the bags away, roll the tops down tightly so they won't get stale, and tuck them in the back of the pantry. All of a sudden I have an urgent need to find the thermometer. E. has a temperature of 102, I'm sure of it, and I have to confirm it. Unphased by the removal of their sugary breakfast, the girls bound off to play. As I get upstairs to my room, the need for a thermometer transforms into a need for a robe. Something modest. What am I thinking walking around in my jammies?
The girls come screaming up the stairs, L. doing a serious 'potty-dance' and E. informing me that the toilets downstairs are broken and her younger sister "really needs to go." They refuse to let me get my robe on until I come investigate. It turns out that the first toilet (all black, but not shiny - dull black and plasticky) has no water in it. It also seems to be up against the wall in the living room. Hmmm.
"Did you try to flush it and see if it fills back up with water before you came racing up to get me?" I ask, fully exasperated. I'm remembering that I still haven't found the thermometer.
"But, Mom, look!" E. points to the wall behind the toilet. A spider egg sac is exploding with hundreds of baby spiders who are rapidly making a web that fills the space between the wall and the back of the toilet. So much for using that one!
We pad off toward the kitchen, a slow, quiet parade of three. Molly is still there, fussing with the coffee maker, but not acting at all frustrated. It seems that the second broken toilet is in my kitchen. Double hmmm. This one has had the lid and seat completely ripped off of it. They are lying up against the wall. The seat is white with pastel confetti colors sprinkled over it and it seems to be missing most of the hardware I might need to re-attach it. As L. increases the frantic pace of her gyrations and chants, "I gotta go, I gotta go, I gotta go", E's teacher walks in.
"Are you ready for your spelling test this morning, kiddo?" she says to my eldest daughter who is crowding me -seriously crowding me and making it so I can't see what I'm doing.
"Oh! I need to find the thermometer! I think she has a fever of 102, so I'm not sure she's coming to school today," I stand up from my crouch and wipe my hands on my short pajamas.
The teacher's eyes widen as the full scene hits her. I'm in my pajamas, L. is dancing around in an attempt to contain her pee as long as she can, Molly is still trying to make coffee, and there is a toilet in my kitchen.
"O......Kay," she says slowly, turns on her heel and walks out quickly. Just the way you would if you were trying to escape from a rabid pit bull. Walk. Don't run.