I’m no stranger to crazy dreams in the lead-up to a big event, but ever since hitting the second trimester my nocturnal adventures have been off the charts. Overactive imagination? Overactive hormones, more like – it’s down to my good friend progesterone, according to the baby books.
My dreams this past week have been very saucy. The kind that leave you all hot and bothered and trying not to make eye contact with your partner in the morning when he hands you a cup of tea. I was happy when I stopped being the centre of my own pregnancy porn film and started dreaming about famous people having sex instead. That is, until I dreamed I’d just walked in on two naked breakfast TV stars having loud, acrobatic sex in my bed. (I will never watch Sunrise in the same way again.)
It gets stranger. Take the other night’s dream, for example. I’d just given birth and I handed the child, wrapped up, to Mr Chick while we oohed and ahhed over him. The baby was quite small and skinny, so we decided (strangely) that the best thing to do to fatten him/her up would be to order a pizza.
Cut to a road with me driving alongside Mr Chick who was running along – CARRYING OUR NEWBORN – and yelling about how the pizza was about to arrive and we didn’t have any paper towels. (I kind of get this, as we’re always running out of paper towels in real life).
I was yelling too. Along the lines of, ‘Give me the baby and you can go look for the paper towels!’
He was flustered and clearly very concerned about the paper towels, so he thought the best course of action was to THROW THE BABY INTO A BUSH and run on looking for the stupid paper towels while I screeched from the car, ‘You just threw our newborn into a hydrangea bush!’
But that’s not even the weirdest bit. I stopped the car to retrieve the baby, whereupon it climbed out of the bush, turned into a monkey with orange fur, and ran away.
To say I woke up traumatised was an understatement. Let’s just hope it’s not a sign of what kind of parents Mr Chick and I will become.