I had this dream last night:
I’m walking down the aisle in a gorgeous couture bridal gown (it’s my dream, I can wear what I want to). Dave is waiting for me at the altar. Our eyes meet. Out of nowhere, a baby cries. And then all of a sudden, I have Fembot boobs, except instead of shooting bullets, they’re shooting milk, drenching the front row and my Vera Wang.
We just put down a deposit and set a date for our wedding, 18 months from now. I also just started meds for our third round of IVF. Am I crazy?
If things go our way, I could have a baby on my boob at my own wedding.
And that’s a little terrifying.
My first year with Viv – who, mind you, never, ever once in her life took a bottle – was primarily spent nursing. I could do it anywhere – in a toy store, at a nail salon, in the bath, while eating pizza, fast asleep in my bed, on the toilet (these things happen), even at my brother’s wedding. But am I ready to whip it out on my own big day?
Eh, I should be so lucky. If I’m able to have another baby, I’m sure my joy will overpower my anxieties about being tired, leaky, lumpy and hormonal at my own wedding. If we’re not able to have another child, knowing that our special day is looming will lift my spirits and give me focus. So it’s win, win. And bananas.
I feel really good about setting our date — after all, this is Carriage Before Marriage, not Carriage Before Stalling — I’d just better be prepared for some more crazy dreams. Like, the school bell rings, and there’s an exam starting, but I’ve never taken this class before, and I’m naked, and there’s a rabbi holding a baby, and then all my teeth fall out. It’s going to be a long 18 months.
Oh, by the way, I’d love your vote in the Top 25 Funny Mom Blogs contest. You can vote for Carriage Before Marriage once every 24 hours until Feb 13. Thank you!
