I was fast asleep, enjoying the start of what promised to be a fab dream.
I dreamed that I was getting ready for bed. My fella had snuck up behind me, kissed my neck, lovely. So I went to the bathroom, calling back to him on my way, chit-chatting, all was well with the world.
“Oooh, you’ve run yourself a bath? Very nice.”
I glanced in the bath and realised that no, this was the kid’s bath water from earlier, we just hadn’t pulled the plug out yet.
And then I saw something pink in the bottom of the bath. My son.
Suddenly the dream turned to horror. I grabbed him and shouted to my husband and I’m filled with utter despair.
And then I woke up.
And I’m at that place in between where you suddenly realise that it was just a dream so you’re flooded with relief but, at the same time, it just happened so it feels real and you’re beside yourself.
You can’t think.
Eventually though, your breathing slows down and the thoughts come crashing in.
So after getting up and checking on all three of the children, whispering to God in my head to please look after them, that I love them so much, please let them be ok, I laid back in bed wondering what it all meant.
Because dreams have got to mean something don’t they?
If nothing else they’re like a reflection of the party that goes on inside your head when the thinking is shut off.
But what does that say about me as a parent?!?
(Thankfully it’s only now as I’m awake and writing this that I have that realisation. If I’d have thought about that at 2am I’d probably still be crying now!)
I kept replaying the scene over in my mind and as I did so I noticed something:
My son is five years old, nearly six. And he’s a big lad. Tall. The Michael that I pulled from the bath in my dream was a baby. It was him, but it was him as a baby.
That awful ache in my heart is still there. Thinking about it makes me cry and pray and beg.
But honestly? That it was him as a baby also made me feel a whole lot better. Because he didn’t drown as a baby. I’d just checked on him in his room. He’s okay.
So what am I meant to do with this dream? Like, what was the point of it?
And that’s when I thought of you. And this place. Because at 2am I felt hugely compelled to get up immediately and write.
Writing this now some 8 hours later I’m feeling slightly uneasy.
Because I didn’t get up. Instead I lay in bed thinking stuff over. What would have been the result had I followed that nudge and got up and wrote?
Only God knows.
I know that at 2am I had thoughts enough for at least three blog posts but is there something else that I missed out on? Obviously I really hope not. All I can do now is say sorry and move on.
(Between you and I, I added a P.S. to that sorry that went something along the lines of ‘if it was something really cool and important for someone, can you pop it in my head now anyway please?’)
Us women are very good at feeling guilty, even more so than the men it seems. That’s why one of my resolves this year (and one that clearly I needed reminding of!) is to say sorry and move on. No more of the incessant beating oneself up. It doesn’t undo stuff and it doesn’t help!
But that wasn’t the thought I ended on.
The final thought I remember as I drifted off to sleep was one of God’s love. But not the nicey nice, trite sounding ‘God loves you’ kind of love that feels sickly sweet but empty.
This was a love that hurts.
The kind of hurt that you feel in your heart when life (or a dream) forces you to deal with losing someone you love.
That love isn’t neat or sweet or nice or red hearts and flowers.
It’s raw. And painful. And messy.
It bubbles up inside of you, uncontrollably.
And when it turns out to be just a dream, it changes you.
Leaves you feeling thankful for another day.
Sees you giving your son an extra kiss on the head or really looking at him, seeing him properly. And reminds you just how much you love him.
And that love, that ache, that yearning in your heart? That’s how God feels when he thinks about you.
He’s not sat on a big ol’ throne up in heaven with a big stick like some Triton, scowling at you and barking threats.
He’s there right next to you, stroking your hair, whispering your name into the sunrise.
Yearning. Aching. Loving you.
Maybe you knew that already, in your head, but just maybe you needed reminding today?
I see love notes, scattered all over the universe, especially for you.
Reminding you every day that he loves you.
This has been the most uncomfortable post I’ve ever written (although after that 2am compulsion I couldn’t chicken out at the last hurdle!) and now I’m lost for words. I don’t have a neat, tidy succinct ending for you.
Love is messy like that I guess.