I had a dream.

Last night.

It wasn’t a grand vision for world peace and community.

I was pregnant.

And I WAS NOT happy.

Here’s the good news. In my dream I have invented a pregnancy pee stick that not only tells you if you’re having multiples, but tells you the sex.

It’s twins. A boy and girl. FML.

My biggest concern in the dream was not the fact that my husband has had a vasectomy or that I’m flirting with menopause, but that I wanted to name the girl after my mother in law who recently passed away in October. Her name was Anna. It suited her. Anna Maria, to be exact, because she was Italian, and that name is practically state sponsored.

So the naming progression in my dream was this:

I don’t want to give her the same name. It’s a lot to live up to.

St. Anna pops into my head. It would be condescending of me to tell you my MIL was a saint because no one is. She was a complex person with human emotions and she would be the last person to claim perfection. To me, however, she was a model of goodness, caring, and warmth. 

So in my dream St. Anna morphs to Santana. Apologies to anyone reading named Santana or with a loved one with this moniker, but I gotta tell it like it is. Santana is a stripper’s name and I was absolutely sick to think this was the best I could do to honor my MIL.

And then the truth washes over me. I am going to be a mother again. I’m starting all over. Being a mother is my life’s purpose and I will continue with this singular task. Forever. 

I’m going to be painfully honest with you. I was awash in despair.

And then the alarm went off on a Saturday morning which should be a punishable crime. I have to take my middle son to the airport to get back to school for his second semester of his freshman year at college. 

I stumble to the kitchen to poor myself a cup of ambition and pass two bodies sprawled out on my couch after a night of Corona, Fireball, and Jagermeister. I know, such fucking idiots. But I smile because I’m so thankful they know they can crash here and be safe.

Just as we are about to leave for the airport, my little person awakens to say goodbye to his big brother and then darts to the bathroom to throw up. One week back at elementary school and voilà.

I hadn’t expected to say goodbye to my son for another hour or so, but now Dave’s gotta take him so I can stay home with the little guy who has now moved on to the other end…

I am overwhelmed with emotion and sobbing. While I will see him in February for a fraternity mom’s weekend and again in April for his older brother’s college graduation, he will not be back in my house for 4 months. And that seems like an eternity.

But also, get the fuck out and take your hungover friends with you. That is the dichotomy of motherhood. My life’s sentence, I mean purpose, according to my dream last night.

And I say without sarcasm, how lucky for me.

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