[i]For a very long time, I’ve given a great deal of thought to having a child and the circumstances thereof. I don’t want a child right now, of course. But should I hit the age of 35 or so and not already have a loving companion to settle down with (which, given my exemplary luck with men, is a great possibility), I will ask a friend to help me bear a child. To be blunt, it would be a sperm donation from a trusted source. I would rather a friend donate than take a sample of some unknown donor. I would have them to sign off on parental rights, thus alleviating them from any responsibilities. I don’t want their money, just a child. And it would be rather difficult to conceive on my own. Anyway, with that said, this is the dream I had (all names have been omitted out of respect):
I wasn’t in control of this dream. I was a passenger, so to speak, only able to watch from my own eyes. Still, it was one of the most vivid and real dreams that I've ever experienced.
I was older. I felt older. I was nearing forty, I think… I looked around and I recognized the room I was in. I’d dreamed of it before. A kitchen, very large… blue stools and a tiled bar. I think it was white, but I’m not sure. Someone was sitting next to me, but I didn’t look at them. Whoever it was must have been a friend, or someone I was comfortable with. Someone else had my attention, though. I stood from the stool and walked to the center of the kitchen, where a little boy sat on the floor, playing with some toy cars. He was about two or three years old, with beautiful blue eyes and auburn hair that curled a bit at his little neck. I knew him right away and I couldn’t help but beam a smile full of love. He was my son. I smiled and my heart felt warm. For the first time in a long time, I felt happy. I got down on the floor with him, smoothed his soft hair and kissed his head.
“Hey, sweetie,” I said. “Are you hungry?”
He looked up at me and nodded.
“What do you want?” I asked.
He smiled, and I swear my heart melted. It was such a familiar smile, and it lit up the room. “Nutbutter sammich,” he said. His voice was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard.
I looked into his eyes and grinned. “Wanna help me make it?” I tapped his nose with a finger.
“Yeah!” He said. My son and I stood and I scooped him up in my arms. I swung him around a few times, savoring his laughter, before I plopped him down on the counter next to the refrigerator. There were pictures on the refrigerator, and my child pointed to one and asked, "Whozzat?"
I told him the name of the person in the picture, a man who also happened to be my little boy's namesake. Confused, my son looked up at me and said, "Zat me?"
I placed a loaf of bread on the countertop next to him and glanced at the photo. “No, sweetie,” I corrected him. I felt as though I’d said it before, but I answered again, patiently. “But his name is the same as yours. He’s mommy’s friend.”
“Oh,” he said, as though he understood. He pointed to the picture and said my friend’s name. He pointed to himself and repeated it. He pointed to me, accidentally poking me in the boob. “Mama.”
I chuckled. “That’s right.”
I heard a voice behind me, asking something about my son and the picture. I turned around to see an older woman. I got the impression that this was her house; I was just a guest. I took notice now of who had been sitting next to me at the bar. My friend, of course. He makes more appearances in my dreams than a presidential hopeful a month before election day. He and I exchanged a glance, and he lowered his eyes. I wondered if he regretted helping me have a child. I hoped not because I felt that he’d given me the greatest gift that a friend could ever give another. I looked at the woman again. Apparently the dream-me knew what her question had been, because the waking me doesn’t remember what she said exactly. “The birth certificate says ‘known donor’. I chose to have a child on my own.” I answered politely. I turned back to my son and handed him the jar of peanut butter, which he spent quite a bit of determined effort to open.
“I thought you two were close?” The woman spoke quietly. “Is that what you think of him, dear? As a ‘known donor’?”
“Mom…” My friend muttered.
“Not at all,” I said to the woman. “I just didn’t want some anonymous stranger to father my child, so I asked someone I trusted. He agreed and is under no obligation to claim responsibility.”
“But what if he wants to?” She walked to me and put a hand on my shoulder. “And what if we want to?” I cast another glance at my friend, but he was busy looking elsewhere. Anywhere but at us. He seemed… agitated somehow.
I stopped my son from trying to stuff the whole peanut butter and jelly sandwich we had just made into his mouth. “Sweetie, small bites.”
“Sowwy,” he said, his mouth full.
My son was too young yet to understand what the woman and I were discussing in front of him, but I lowered my voice anyway. “You’re more than welcome to give him gifts and things like that,” I said. “And both of us enjoy these visits, but I’d rather he not call you ‘grandma’ or my friend ‘daddy’. I don’t want to confuse him.”
“But you’ll take support?” The woman said. She wasn’t angry, just concerned, which I completely understood.
“No,” I answered honestly. “It’s not like that at all. I don’t want anything from him—or from you. We both agreed and signed the papers, and even still I would never do that to him. I watched my mother make my father’s life miserable and I would never do that to someone I—“ I paused and reconsidered my words. “Someone I care so much about.”
The woman’s eyes softened and she squeezed my hand. “And if he asks who his father is? He’s going to ask someday, you know.”
I smiled. “I’ll tell him the truth.” I looked at my friend, who met my eyes. “That his mother wanted him so badly, she asked a friend to help her create him.” My friend smiled slightly, a smiled that broadened when his eyes fell upon my son. Our son… I saw so much pride, so much love for that little boy in his eyes that I could never deny him anything. “I’ll tell my son who his father is,” I said softly. “And I think he’ll understand and appreciate all that your family has done for us. I don’t want to cut any of you out of his life. I just don’t want you to think that I did this with ulterior motives. I swear to you, I didn’t. I got what I wanted.” I kissed my son’s sticky cheek and tasted peanut butter with a touch of grape jelly. My little boy was making an impressive mess on the countertop (and on himself).
I felt so content, but at the same time I knew that I was only experiencing the Dreaming. Still, I let myself bask in this elusive happiness a bit longer; until my alarm went off and called me back into the waking world.
