Lately I’ve been allowing myself to dream. To dream what it would feel like to actually be pregnant. Dream of how I would feel, how happy we’d be. Thrashing out baby names, fighting about how we’re going to decorate the nursery and most of all about deciding to find out the sex of the baby or not.
Sometimes the dreams that I allow myself threaten to overwhelm me and fill me with such an intense feeling of foreboding, cos why am I allowing myself to dream of something that I am not even sure is going to happen? Surely I should dream about the staircase we’re planning on ripping out and rebuilding rather than a figment of my imagination?
But sometimes these dreams I’m allowing myself also give me a glimpse of what can be, of what will be, should we be strong enough and faithful enough to see this race through. And that fills me with love and happiness.
So I’ll allow them for a while longer and keep on hoping that soon they’ll not just be a figment of my wildest imagination but just as tangible as that staircase we’re building.