“Hope is a waking dream.”

Last night I dreamed I was pregnant. Or maybe it was early this morning… Whatever.

I was early pregnant. Positive pregnancy test pregnant. I could see every detail of the test itself, with its little blue lines. It had a blue lid.

It was an incredibly vivid, and typically disjointed dream.
We were out with friends at a place that required considerable bundu-bashing to get to the loo, including a shallow pond that had to be walked through, and I made the trip repeatedly, paranoid that I had started my period.
My sweet Glugster and I had agreed we wouldn’t tell anyone until after the first trimester (as we did in real life) even though I was dying to say something, and in my dream we even discussed how we were going to announce it to our parents in some special, elaborate, worthy-of-YouTube way. Several times in my dream I picked up my phone to call my mom and then put it down on the table again.

I woke up with the sads. Its no longer the ugly-crying-jag-use-up-half-a-box-of-tissues sads, its now just a small thing. Kinda like a bruise you forget about that hurts like hell when you bump it.

The passing of time certainly makes it a easier to deal with the sadness and the disappointment. And since I downloaded an app to my phone that even gives me a PMS warning I am a little less hopeful every month.

More than 6 years on, hope – that sonofabitch that can drive you quite insane – still holds out.

Even if its only with a pinkie finger now…

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