I had the most vivid, lovely tear-inducing dream last night. It was one of those dreams that doesn't have a plot line or crazy twists and turns. It wasn't even very long or involved. But it is sticking with me today. I can't stop thinking about it.
Champ and I were at the beach on vacation. We were playing with a little boy - presumably our son - in the sand. He was probably two years old, but I could only see the back of his head, as he was facing Champ. It started to rain, so we picked up our stuff and started heading inside, the boy toddling in front of us, leading the way. Champ and I held hands until the boy, unsteady on the sand, lost his footing. He didn't fall, but Champ scooped him up and carried him the last few steps to the concrete. It was so natural, such an easy, normal situation. I felt blissfully happy.
As the alarm clock went off at 6:30 this morning, I realized right away it was a dream. I hit snooze and tried to bury myself back in it, to recreate that feeling of contentment. Instead I just felt sad. Not only is that little guy from my dream very much not my son, but he's also very much an improbability. I may never meet him. And the overwhelming feeling of regret and sorrow that takes over when I think about it is almost worth not having dreams like that. Almost.