I wake one morning aware that I had a weird dream, but unable to recall what it was. I don’t bother trying to scour my brain for it because I am exhausted and need to get ready for work.
But as I stand in the shower sudsing my belly, it all comes rushing back.
I had impregnated my boyfriend.
Or, at least, we assume so because he has a huge belly. Not his normal, Just-Eaten-a-Brontosaurus-Burger belly, but a fairly large protrusion.
We are flummoxed, to say the least.
He tells me he’s ready to deliver. I grab an armful of bathroom towels as he lays on the kitchen table. My thoughts are racing. I worry the baby will come out looking like a malformed potato. But I declare I’ll love it anyway. I guess.
We wonder how on earth we’re going to get this baby out.
“Lemme grab your X-acto knife,” I say.
He pales but doesn’t protest. Pushing does not sound like a better alternative.
At this point, I begin to wonder if he is, in fact, due. Because, really, though his stomach is large, he isn’t that far along. Perhaps this is just a false alarm. Perhaps the little misshapen spud isn’t done baking.
Or maybe, just maybe, this isn’t a baby.
Maybe this is a tumor.
A cancerous tumor the size of a small baby. In his stomach.
This is unfortunately more likely, and I become disappointed. I wanted a child. One that I didn’t have to give birth to. I wanted to enjoy my own spawn, but not actually have to do any of the work.
I wanted to be a father.
The dream ends with me saying to him, “You should probably go see a doctor about that.”