This is a snippet of a nap dream I had the other day. It's the only part I can remember.
I am knocking on the front door of a house and Tamara answers, her arms full of what appears to be a little tow-headed 1-year-old. I stand at the door as she welcomes me in and then goes around the hallway corner. She is mom-harried, a state I recognize immediately.
What's remarkable is that her little baby — who could be a year old, could be 18 months, but is certainly not two or three — is speaking in perfectly clear, metered, enunciated sentences. They are having a real conversation. I think to myself that my child, who is a decent bit older than this one, can't speak that well. And I feel a small sting of failure as a mother.