Two nights ago, a nightmare woke me up. Now, it’s not all that surprising that I had a nightmare considering a) I’m under a lot of stress right now, b) the reality of giving birth is beginning to stare me in the eyes with its ugly face, c) I haven’t been sleeping well (big belly and all that), and d) I’m a paranoid, flighty sort of person anyway, so I tend to have nightmares pretty frequently.
It’s just that this nightmare was so very lame. I was walking with my sister (Kenner) across a large field when we came across an old man. We began to chat with him, and, like an old guy, he began telling us stories of the good old days. He was a bit senile, so he kept repeating himself. Finally, Kenner and I gave him a quick hug and left, continuing across the field.
He stood there for a while and then started following us. He eventually caught up with us and began telling all the same old-man stories. We obliged him, but we had to get home (which was across the field). This time we were less patient and hurried off. But he hurried off after us, calling after us that he had more stories to tell.
We started feeling creeped out, so we broke into a run. He ran after us, and we slammed the front door closed just in time to leave him outside. I felt like a jerk, but I didn’t trust him.
Then I woke up. So there you have it. I spend my days worrying about Jon Boy finding a job, about pregnancy, about parenting, about money, and about giving birth, and that’s the best I can come up with, folks: chubby old senile men who want to tell me stories over and over and over.
Scary, isn’t it?