Last night, I gave birth to a baby girl.
I caught her in my hands without ever going into labor, and I named her Hannah Jane.
Certainly, a natural birth without contractions is nigh impossible, even more so for women my age, who ob-gyns consider "geriatric."
But this was a dream, like many I've had of late. And despite waking from such dreams with a longing for my milk to let down, literal interpretation is not the point.
The point, according to dream experts like the eminent late psychologist Carl Jung, is that life may be unfolding for me in some new way. Dreaming about birth could mean I am about to birth something big.
Like a best-selling novel.
Or an American Idol debut.
Or, if I had to guess, I'd say it's a post-Mommy self. A new and improved me, emerging out of the shadows of motherhood.
I couldn't have predicted this two years ago. Back then, if I weren't frantically working on a 200-page scrapbook showcasing every significant moment in my youngest child's life, you'd find me curled up in the fetal position over his impending high-school graduation. Since that time, I've found my identity shaken many other times, like when my 28-year-old says, three times so far, but who's counting: "I don't always need your advice anymore, Mom."
Of course, it didn't help that I had by then slipped into an invisibility cloak, aka the "Invisible Woman." This is a real, not made-up, phenomenon, by the way: No longer the target of looks from men (loving husbands and partners the hoped-for exception), no longer needed as much by our children, women my age often report feeling invisible, says "Psychology Today." Even women with high-powered careers feel they're no longer being heard, simply because their necks are wrinkled.
Invisible to society.
Invisible to family.
And here comes the aha moment we've all been waiting for: What's left is self.
Bingo.
As of today, I am refusing to die on the vine. Au contraire, I am just getting started.
I find not only time now, but desire to grow deeper into my photography business, the book I started to write 12 years ago, community work that resonates, activities with my husband that are mutually pleasing, the yoga and meditation I've always wanted to do every day.
I am perhaps, most importantly, most interested in delving into my deepest self with an unprecedented clarity of vision. Last week I bought a new daily planner and next to the columns "To Do Now" and "To Do Later," I created my own category, "Feeds my Soul."
Victoria's Secret may beg to differ as to what constitutes a "hot" woman. I find myself better than ever where it counts _ inside my head, inside my heart and in the melding of the two. I am by no means turning my back on family and community. But rather than feeling guilty, I feel celebratory when I choose to attend a yoga class instead of going on a march, joining a committee or making cookies for an army.
It's like magic. When you start acting like you count as much as everybody else, and then some, things start happening. You start having dreams about giving birth.
I am still in transition with this, no pun intended. My increasingly independent children can still throw me off, as can a sideways glance in a mirror at the wrong time.
But every time I wake from one of these birth dreams, I feel slightly more delicious. For the first time in a long time, I am excited about what's next.
Maybe, after all these years of birthing and rearing others, it's time for a birth-day party for me and Hannah Jane.
