Last night, I dreamed of Conor as a toddler. In it, he was a typical, strawberry-blonde little boy with a mass of curls rioting on his head and cute little white sneakers--the kind with the velcro closure. (Of course, in my dream, I looked like Sarah Jessica Parker and I had on a very fabulous Prada dress. How very unlike me.)
He was about three years old, in this early morning dream, weeping on my shoulder about some slight. Crying into my neck and talking to me in a baby voice about what had upset him. It felt so real, as if I truly cradled him in my arm and stroked his hair. I could feel his warmth, the sticky sweat on the back of his neck.
I made myself wake up very quickly.
I have these dreams once in awhile. Not often. Dreams where Conor is a typical kid, talking, learning, smiling, interacting like any other typical boy. I loathe these dreams, to be truthful. They bring back the wanting, the desire, the little tug in my heart for my son to be different than he is. It makes me feel weak and insecure, small and meek, this desire.
It's been 11 years since his regression. And yet, I still have these dreams.
I usually spend the day after in a melancholy funk. I struggle to push the wistful, wanting feelings away, but they swirl around me and in me like an etherial cloud. It's impossible to outrun a fog, I suppose. I just sit and wait for a wind to blow them away, hoping the breeze brings relief and not another storm.