Dream cleaning
The Dreams I Had for My Child Before They Were Born vs. After 4 Months of Sleep Deprivation
Does psychosis count as dreaming?
Oh, how it was to dream. Big dreams. Dreams for the little person replacing my footprint on this planet we call home. I can remember back to the time my wife and I found out we were going to become parents. Almost every night we talked about our hopes for our child and the life ahead of them. Then we slept. When you sleep, you have the opportunity to dream.
I present to you now some of those dreams, alongside the more realistic expectations forged from four months of sleep deprivation and chaos.
Before: I would love for our child to find their voice and make a difference to society.
After: I would love my son to be quiet. Not a full mute; he can talk a few words. I love you dad. Yes dad, I will tidy my room. Yes dad, I do have time to mow the lawns before setting up the gazebo for my 5th birthday party. He can find his voice silently, maybe become a writer. Just not on Medium; he can’t live off peanuts. He’ll probably be allergic to them.
Before: I would love our child to be healthy and refrain from eating too much junk food.
After: I would love for him to eat. Like anything at all. I don’t care if it’s deep-fried crystal meth, just eat something, please.
Before: I would love for our child to become a skilled neurosurgeon and save people from brain cancer and skateboarding-based head injuries.
After: This devil with operatic lungs better become an ear surgeon and repair my disintegrated eardrums.
Before: I hope our child will wipe the scourge of fascists off the face of the earth — not in a violent way, more like a well-fed Gandhi with a happier ending.
After: Will he ever learn to wipe his own arse? He just lies there like some dole-bludging junkie, cackling away in his own filth.
Before: I hope our child will become a productive member of society, rise and shine with the early worms and all that shit.
After: I don’t care what he does in his waking hours. I’ll gladly make a deal for him to become the devil’s little helper as long as he sleeps 8 hours each night.
Before: I hope our child stays with us forever, or at least until we are old and decrepit enough they can organise our funeral and slip the cyanide into our morning coffee before arguing over the inheritance.
After: Only 6542 days until he turns 18 and we can legally kick him out. Not that I’m counting.
Just in case this piece is still on the internet by the time my son is old enough to read it — or in case child and family services are monitoring — please know this was satire and I was (mostly) joking. Especially about the cyanide. I want to be around long enough to see you suffer through this too.
Dream of being able to raise your kids the way you want? Use this.
