Birth

Last night, I dreamed I had a baby. But I birthed a baby that was the equivalent of an 8-month old. I brought him home from the hospital in a plastic grocery bag. Now the thing is, I tied the grocery bag shut with the handles (I do this in real life to keep things from spilling out when I’m driving home). I brought him home, set him down, bag and all in the living room and went to bed.
About a day passed and I kept thinking his name was Anthony, and I worried that my friend Carmen was going to be so pissed that i had named him that, because that’s HER baby’s name. Then I realized that I hadn’t heard a peep from the little one since I brought him home, and realized I didn’t have a crib or baby monitors, or ANYTHING. I rushed downstairs (Dennis and I were living in my old house in Virginia) and he was still in the bag, which was still tied shut. I ripped open the bag, and he was gasping for breath and his little heart was beating wildly. But I didn’t take him to the doctor, because I was afraid they would call the cops to come arrest me for child neglect.
Then I checked his hospital bracelet and remembered I didn’t name him Anthony afterall! I named him Theodore Jackson (I have no idea where that name is from). And I called him Teddy. I pressed Teddy to me so relieved, and his heart beat slowed to normal. I remember just loving that kid so much, and the last thing I remember is holding him up by his hands and teaching him to walk.
Then I woke up.