Dreamfeed

Have you heard of this? It's when you feed a baby whilst s/he's still asleep, to get them through the night without waking. I'm not quite sure how you manage it with a breastfed baby, but I suppose it could be done.

But this isn't about dreamfeeds. It's about feeding dreams. The other night, I dreamed that I was nursing a 25-year-old man. It wasn't during the Dustbowl, it wasn't for erotic purposes, it was just ... lunch. I don't remember much about the rest of the dream, but that's some fucked up shit, man.


As long as I'm here:

• A week or so ago, Husband and I were lying in bed, observing The Dude bicycling his legs and generally flailing about. We both speak for The Dude on a fairly regular basis, as one must do for the pre-verbal and dogs, since, duh, they can't talk for themselves.
  
  Me: Man, he sure gots some busy little hams, there.
  DH: I can't crawl yet but when I can I'm totally gonna fuck some shit up.
  
  So maybe it was funnier in the moment but I nearly peed my pants.
  

• Perp likes to play peek-a-boo. For some reason, she calls it "boo-boo." She loves it when Mr. Rogers plays boo-boo. She adores sitting in her carseat, covering her face, and crying, "OH, NO!!" while I pretend I can't see her. Then I spot her in the mirror and she goes ballistic with joy. The other day, I was putting on a shirt and Perp, as usual, pointed out that I was topless: "Na-na!". She loves my breasts. She pokes them, holds each like a sandwich when she nurses, and generally includes them in her daily running commentary. As I pulled my top down, she chirped, "Boo-boo, na-na!"
  

• With two kids in the house, I sometimes neglect my own stomach at mealtimes. Today I had a can of Diet Coke (with Splenda! I heart Splenda) for breakfast. Lunch (3 o'clock) was half a tuna "samoosh" with cheese and crackers. So a lot of times I find myself furtively gobbling the remains of Perp's lunch while I'm trailing after her in the wake of her destruction. The kid eats well, I must say.
  

• The Dude has unerring aim and timing. He never neglects to baptise me in a stream of fresh-made cheese just after I've changed my shirt from the last round. And I never manage to have a burp rag on hand. You'd think I'd have learned by now. Perp was a prodigious puker, full-bore projectile hurling at the drop of a hat, and I always at least managed to have an extra shirt on hand (except the times I bragged about how clever I was to always have an extra shirt on hand, in which case, well, I didn't). At least he hasn't pissed on me above the neck. *whew*