What's It Mean, That Odd Dream?

I dreamed I got a baby Friday night. She was sleeping in her crib in a nursery when we moved into a new house, one with a bigger yard than our “previous” house, very nice except the old family hadn’t quite moved out.  Their stuff was all over the place as were their children and their baby. (This was a dream, so having a baby ready-made was  natural and right, but even in a dream, having the former residents living in my home was weird.)

But, for gosh sakes, I didn’t WANT a baby. Gimme a break, I have two Perfect Grandchildren, why would I want a new baby? It was a real pain in the neck: the diapers, the exhaustion, the constantly thinking about and being responsible for a baby every minute, all day long.  I did have some  sweet outfits for her, and she smiled like the sun, and I loved her.

Needless to say, though, she took time away from my other children, my older children. The number was indeterminate, but there were at least a boy and a girl. The other kids running around may have been their friends or children from the previous family. Dream-like, they were there and not-there. There was no dream-guilt that I didn’t love those random children as much as the older two and the baby.

So I finally got the stupid diapers on the baby and went out into the Great Room where the previous family was setting up for a birthday party. This seemed a bit nervy to me, but, I don’t know, maybe they’d discussed it with Steve. I didn’t want to be rude. Then my baby woke up.  I went in to change her, but I couldn't get the diaper pins in fast enough, and she piddled on the changing pad. 

Then I woke up and got up. I walked down my very long – who wants a BIGGER yard? -- driveway to get the Washington Post. I stopped to weed a few aggressive clovers and crabgrass from the front garden and came in to get my, please, oh lord, coffee.

*Bolt of lightning descends here.*  Yes, right in the middle of weeding, I realized the Baby is my second novel which I have just begun (Jaguar Sees: The Red Hummingbird.) I love the idea of writing it (I loved the baby), but it's difficult to take writing time into account during the day.  The story continuously lurks in the back of my head, much like a baby’s safety. My real-life children, aka David and Stephanie aren't any trouble ('cause they're grown up), but dance, reading, quilting, travel and friends run through my life much as my dream-children skipped higgledy-piggledy through my dream house. My dream house and family really were just a reflection of reality, energetic and lovable if slightly confusing and crazy.
The other family? The one that half lives in my “new” house? I have no idea.