Last night I dreamed I was sitting in a field, surrounded by beautiful white flowers that smell like baby. The sun is warm on my face and all is peaceful and serene. The ground is soft like silk and it seems to surround me like my bed. There is a light breeze and when it blows I can feel the flowers and their stems gently hit my stomach. I look down to see the blossoms graze my mid-section only to see that it's not the flowers at all. My middle is rounded and I can feel the child inside me gently kicking as if to say "Here I am, don't forget about me."
I gently caress my stomach and lay down in the flowers and sweetly drift off to sleep still smelling the sweet smell of new baby.
I wake in real life only to see that my son is the one kicking me in the stomach, startled by the storms outside my window. The only thing round about my stomach is the flab left from carrying two children for 40 weeks each.
Part of me is disappointed that it was only a dream. I want to have another child. I want to feel him or her growing inside me. I want to smell that sweet sweet smell of a new born just after their first bath. Feel their soft skin against mine and share the closeness that can only be felt while nursing a newborn baby. Even the thought of giving birth seems romantic.
What doesn't seem so romantic is the fact that one day that sweet infant will be 2 and then 3. I am convinced that the person who coined the phrase "The Terrible Two's" didn't live to see their child reach the age of 3. I can barely handle the 3-year-old I have and very soon, too soon in fact, my sweet baby boy will be 2 and eventually 3. Maybe if I survive these two toddlers, I can have another one.
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