Pregnancy dreams, breastfeeding, and George W. Bush's devil child

I've heard about this whole crazy-pregnancy dreams thing for a while, but last night was the first time I officially experienced it.

I have never had a "normal," simple, obvious dream. Never do they include school, or work, or romances with celebrities, or being nude in public. So for me to have a dream that I classify as "crazy" is saying something. I haven't had such intense, vivid dreams since my first time on Prednisone when I was 13, and I still, ten years later, remember every single color, texture, word, and emotion of those.

Last night (or, day, rather, since I sleep during the daylight and work overnight), included a string of these bizarre dreams. One, in particular, stands out.

My fiance and I buy a one-room cabin in the woods. It's bare, at best, with a moth-ball-ridden plaid couch and a leaky sink and drafty windows. We also buy a gun, to accompany us in our new real estate adventure, and put it next to the couch, which we decide will be our bed.

After one night of sleeping there, I know we've made a mistake (I think I originally thought it would be a good place for the baby--quiet, unadulterated by pop culture and a good place to breed a thinker). I'd spent the night sleeping on the inside of the couch, with Jason gripping the gun on my other side (he was terrified of the woods. Again, why our dream-selves moved there, who really knows).

The next day, a man and a woman come to visit us. They say they used to live in this house.

They know that I'm pregnant, and the woman tells us she just gave birth. For a few hours, we're friends. We sit on the plaid couch and she tells me all about labor, the ins and outs of the end of pregnancy, the glory of seeing your child for the first time.

Then they leave, and promise to return the next day.

When they return, something has changed. They aren't the friendly, woods-dwelling hippies they were the day before. They're moody, fidgety, and now they wear huge plaid shirts (the day before, the woman had been wearing a flowing, white dress, the man, flip flops and shorts).

The woman starts in on a story about how her child was conceived. Turns out, it doesn't belong to her male companion.

It belongs, she confesses, to George W. Bush.

And it isn't Dubya's love child. The former president raped her.

She's not especially upset telling me this, but her eyes well up for the next part.

She has given birth, she says, to a devil baby. She never outright says that Bush would then be the devil, but his spawn, well, it's nothing but evil.

Then she slowly, and reluctantly, eyes down and ashamed, unbuttons her plaid shirt.

Her breasts have been mutilated beyond recognition. Her nipples are gone, in their place are only huge, bleeding scabs.

I'm not scared by the sight, only fascinated. I had questions about breastfeeding, and this answers quite a few (namely that I no way in hell want to do it).

I ask her how this happened, and she says there's only one way to show me the havoc little George Jr. wrecks when he's feeding.

I then see another scene altogether, one I assume she's allowing me to view from her own thoughts.

And this telepathic vision is a scene from Jurassic Park. It's the one where the group sees the Velocorapter cages for the first time, and they get to witness a feeding.

A cow, strapped up in a harness, is slowly lowered into the cage. All I see is the intact, mooing cow disappear from sight. For just a few moments the tops of the caged trees rustle and shake, and then the harness is raised.

It's in shreds. And the cow is gone.

And then I woke up, and decided not to breastfeed.