Last night I had a wild nightmare.  It must’ve been a subconscious reaction to my gloating about how independent my kids are now.  Or maybe it was my social conscience telling me there was more work to be done.  Or maybe it was my good sense kicking in to give me a subtle reminder not to do anything crazy.

Anyway.

I dreamed I adopted babies.  Not one baby.  Babies.  Triplets.  A girl and two boys.

In my dream, I go through the adoption process to arrive at the moment the adoption counselor is going to present me with the baby I’ve been waiting for.  But when they bring her out, it turns out she’s part of a set – of triplets.  They explain it’s a package deal only.  So I say Yes.

I bring these babies home, and I realize I can’t tell the boys apart, so I resort to putting initials on their feet in Sharpie so I can remember who’s who.  The girl’s easy to identify, because she has blond hair and green eyes and looks just like me.  Just about the time we’re ready to announce to the world what we’ve done, Mr. Wonderful wakes me up.  Thank God.  Because my dream mother-in-law would’ve dropped dead on the spot if we’d told her we got more kids.

So to those of you who can interpret dreams, have a field day with this one.  I’m obviously no longer capable of taking care of babies who don’t come with labels.  And I’m obviously afraid of shocking my mother-in-law. And my husband has really good timing.

All I know is, I’m sticking to my story that I’m glad my kids aren’t little anymore.  And I’m glad I can tell them apart.