I keep dreaming that I can’t fall asleep. When I wake up, I feel like I haven’t slept. As if dealing with a four-month-old wasn’t enough of an obstacle in the quest for an evening’s repose.
So, mere minutes ago I looked in on Evie. She’s fast asleep and, if her rapid eye movements are anything to go by, she’s dreaming up a storm. This begged a question:
What do babies dream of?
Maybe she’s back in the womb, hearing the muffled voices she’s now starting to equate with mom and dad. Perhaps she’s in her car seat gazing out of the back of my Honda as she does most mornings and afternoons. Maybe it’s just an endless parade of dancing Chihuahuas going by.
I really hope that nightmares about being caught naked in public or falling aren’t part of some Jungian collective unconscious and that we start dealing with that psychic flotsam in utero. Please, no.
I’m going to err on the side of believing in a merciful universe and that Evie’s dreams are built of images, sounds, and smells from her heretofore safe and and mostly comfy life.
That being said (written), I wonder when that will change. Her own anxieties and fears will begin to play out in her little head. She will then have encountered the first of many things I will be unable to protect her from.
I was reading my friend Mitchell Brown‘s latest post this morning and it really struck a chord with me. I had been stuck on where to take this post after the somewhat whimsical baby-dream thought.
The thesis of his post is that unpreparedness is one of the ongoing themes that defines parenthood. To that I would add “futility.”
As the homogenous and terrifying Borg have repeatedly said, “Resistance is Futile.” Indeed. In fact, so are the following: attempting to ensure Evie is never teased or bullied, trying to spare my daughter the pain of a broken heart, trying to make sure she never breaks a bone, skins a knee, or chips a nail. So many things that, in the end, are out of our hands.
I have in the past been very guilty of focusing my time and energy on things that I cannot affect. Futile pursuits that managed only to drain me of purpose and reinforce my worst instincts: that I was indeed powerless, a victim of circumstance, and doomed to failure. By indulging in windmill-tilting and cursing at the world, I turned my back on all those things that were within my power.
Back when my life was just about lil’ ol’ me (okay, BIG ol’ me) this kind of mindset was merely pathetic. With a wife and daughter depending on me, it’s downright criminal.
I may not be able to keep Evie from being teased, but I can help her deal with it and overcome it. I can’t keep her from puppy-love heartbreak, but I can perhaps shed some light on why the little sh*tburger wasn’t right for her. And, try as I might, I cannot be there to catch her every time she falls. I can, however, be there to help her stand up, kiss the boo-boo, and be ready for the next time she face-plants in the sandbox.
Perhaps those things we can’t protect our kids from are the things we’re not supposed to, and with that limit to what we can do, we give our children room to grow.
And, while on the subject of the inner life of babies…