Recently I overheard a conversation among young mothers about whether or not they were living the dream. Their days are messy with toddlers, and spilled juice, laundry, and trying to get someplace on time. It is not what they had imagined. 

 

I said nothing. But I did recall the events of my own dreams this week. In the hours between ten pm and six there has been confusion, people from my past making outrageous claims, a sense of urgency, and houses that go on and on. 

 

I have no idea what it means.  

 

Dreams happen when we are asleep. They are not a valid sampling of life. In ways I don't understand they make a soup of my memories, and the characters I know, and mysterious goals I cannot achieve. 

 

Then I wake up. 

 

What is the stuff of these young women's dreams? Children who don't get sick? Little kids in polka dot swim suits? Toddlers making pancakes with play dough? 

 

Admittedly my memory has large gaps, but I can muster up these images and a whole lot more that show up on my screen saver. But the grungy ones are there too, if I look. Visits to the ER, siblings fighting in the back seat, giving myself a time out just to be alone. Not what you would call dreamy. Yet if I am honest, it is part of who we are as a family. 

 

I suppose if you have children under the age of four you should skip over this next paragraph. It could rub you the wrong way.

 

But I will stick my neck out and say that the stormy parts of our history belong there too. Even the heart break, and 911 calls. While I will not be so foolish as to speak to other people's suffering.... I will hang on to my own. When I wake up for Real I think it will all make sense.