I just had this dream in which, to make a long story short (and dreams are always long stories), I was about to adopt a six-month-old baby named Chuckie.

This particular dream has some backstory. I believe it’s a continuation of another dream I had, in which I had met the newborn version of this baby amongst all the others and decided to adopt him for some insane reason. I’m not older or richer (certainly not wiser) in dreamland, so I can’t imagine why I would decide I have the ability to take care of a damn baby when I can barely take care of my apartment.

I also gave him the name Chuckie. As in the Rugrats, not the horror movie. I decided against the name Charles and decided just to put Chuckie on his birth certificate, because it’s such a great name. Why are there so many newborn orphans in this dream, anyway?

In a gigantic fail by the orphanage, I was approved for adoption. And apparently Chuckie was really excited, the orphanage rep told me, at his very eloquent six months of age. I then, assuming some sense was knocked into me between last night and the last dream, pondered how I would raise this baby, by myself, in Baltimore, while being a full-time student. Good question.

But then I felt bad for this poor child, who had obviously had his hopes up for being adopted. (I have a feeling this draws from the Boy Meets World when Eric wants to adopt his “little brother.”) Oh yeah, Chuckie is gonna be really sad, and devastated for life since somebody didn’t adopt his six-month-old ass, Jackie. He’s gonna remember your face and seek revenge later (maybe this does draw from the horror film….).

On the way to the orphanage to see Chuckie, I decided to call my mom and ask her what to do. “Should I adopt this baby for no apparent reason, or just let him spiral into a mass of psychological problems later on?” Of course my mother would have nothing but positive words at the thought of me with a child! She, of the maternity nurse type, who has always held this underlying fear — no, terror — that I would one day tell her the dreaded words I’m pregnant, would be nothing but supportive!

My dreams are so unrealistic.

Except for one thing: the orphanage rep told me that Chuckie was oddly mature for his age, like a 40-year-old stuck in a six-month-old’s body. I said, “That’s just like Chuckie in Rugrats!” and then I said, “Damn, that’s just like me.”

So maybe I should have adopted him after all.

This entry was posted on Thursday, December 3rd, 2009 at 11:34 am and is filed under Random, Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.