There's dreamers and there's baby killers.

So I've been having some dreams about dead babies. And it pretty much goes like this: when you have one dream about a dead baby, you (universally) think, oh those tacos were a bad idea. Then, when a different dead baby visits you in the night, you probably think, well, that's a little weird. But on the third day, when the Mary's roll back the tomb of your subconscious thought, and there lies the body of another dead baby--something is up.

The thing is, I have been known to rebuke those who attempt to tell me their dreams, because generally I like to spend my time discussing things that actually happened. So bear with me for one hypocritical moment. Before I go on, I just need to paint a clear picture of these mutilated baby nightmares.

Here's the first and most vivid: It's the late 1800's, and I'm a nanny on the prairie. I go into town to fetch some groceries from the market. Suddenly I realize I've left the baby on the changing table back at the cabin. So I casually try to persuade someone around me to give me a ride, not wanting to confess the need for my urgency. No one will help. Finally, my dad rallies the rest of my extended family into his Ford Model T (This dream is not historically sound. do not wiki this information) But instead of taking me straight home, my dad decides to take the scenic country route. At this point, I break down. Crying, I tell them what I've done. My uncle laughs, "That baby's not on the changing table. It's been here in this cooler all along!" A red modern day tail-gating cooler appears. I open it, and there lies a tightly-packed suffocated baby. The end.

The other two are different with pretty much the same ending.

At first I thought, not only has my biological clock been ticking, it's now telling me the jig is up. I've missed the train. The only babies I'll ever hold are the ones in my dreams--out of coolers. But I quickly chose to reject this thought, as I have VERY many things to do before babies. Live ones.

So with a bit more introspection, I've decided these dreams are simply a manifestation of my recent writer's block. It seems a very appropriate metaphor that each creative idea I labor out is much like a child. And as writer's block tends to come along with a healthy dosage of self-loathing, I often kill my ideas before they are even born. The lesson I choose to take from this (because I'm seven and still enjoy taking morals from the story) is that if I don't start being a cheerleader for my own work and trusting myself as a writer, I'm just going to keep killing my babies, never knowing their potential. suffocating them in red coolers before CPR was even invented.