I have landed on my least favorite part of being pregnant. Yeah, I know I’m only half-way and things are gonna get more interesting here with a quickness. But I’m gonna hold firm on this one. My least favorite part of being pregnant: the dreams.

Apparently this is yet another magical Progesterone thing. Makes ya have crazy-go-nuts, insane, psychedelic dreams. I tend toward vivid dreams/nightmares/night terrors anyway, but nothing like this. (There’s a reason Paul double-checks the locks every night, cuz I haven’t yet been able to figure out how to undo both deadbolts when I’m still asleep.)

These dreams are incredibly realistic and detailed. Nevermind that the giraffe that’s serving me a decaf latte has purple spots and a British accent. The detail on the color and the texture of the hair on those purple spots – not to mention how good the coffee smells.

But the dreams are terribly involved – like the most complex Law & Order ever. And because I wake up several times a night to pee, I have several distinct dreams a night. I wake up mentally exhausted from dreaming. I don’t feel like I’m really getting any rest cuz my brain is working so hard overnight, every night.

And then there’s the nightmares. Dead bodies that I’m trying to hide in a grocery store. Having our home surrounded by wolves and other monsters that keep breaking windows and finding a way in, trying to kill our pets and lunging at my belly. Being chased by evil, psychotic comic book characters while I frantically try to complete a scavenger hunt that will make them stop their pursuit of me. Trying to save myself and my family from a raging flood in my grandmother’s old trailer park. A swarm of gnats surrounding me and flying in my mouth as I screamed. (These were all within the last week, by the way.)

Last night was the worst though. I’ve only dreamed about the baby twice. First time was what told me I was having a boy. Yes, there were problems with him, but they weren’t terribly concerning. I knew he was OK. Last night was just losing the baby. The baby died inside me. I was so upset and angry in my dream, poking my belly, pleading with the baby to move and prove he was still alive. Wandering the streets, pleading with anyone I saw to explain why God would give us this baby after 10 years to just take it away. Screaming in anguish until no sound would come out anymore. I woke up with a sore throat, sobbing. (I ended up getting up for an hour and having cereal in the hopes that he’d wake up and make himself known.)

The other disturbing dream last night was about my mom who died in in 1998. Oin and I were with her, and somehow she died. But no one else knew, and if we didn’t say anything, she would appear to still be alive to them for about a week. She wouldn’t appear directly to us, but we could see her interacting with other people. Part of me in the dream knew she had already died a long time ago, but the rest of me was just trying to deal with the grief and anger and astonishment all over again.

Actually, my mom was in the dream where I lost the baby too. She was the one who confirmed that yes, my baby had died. She was pregnant too.

I don’t dream about my mom like that usually. If I dream about her at all, it’s usually from the time before I moved out when I was 19. And it’s always just normal day-to-day inconsequential stuff. She’s just another person in my dream, not OMG-my-mom-who-died.

Every time I woke up last night I looked at the clock and tried to figure out if I could just stay up the rest of the night so that I wouldn’t have any more dreams. I’m tired right now, but I’m dreading going to bed.

Yeah. This is my least favorite part of being pregnant.