The baby monitor malfunctioned and it reminded me of this anxiety dream I had when S was just weeks old. I’d hear her on the monitor and go to our room where she slept. I’d pick her up. I’d rock her and sway. I’d make shushing noises. But, then I’d hear another baby crying. The transmitter part of the baby monitor was now receiving. I’d set S down in her crib and walk down the hall. There’d be a new room. Inside this room was a crying baby. Not S. I’d walk to the crib and pick him or her up. I’d go through the same motions: rocking, swaying, shushing. Then, more cries from this baby’s transmitting monitor. I’d leave the room, looking for the crying baby. Suddenly, there are staircases to another level in our old house. They twist. They lead to a brightly lit, sparse room in our attic. There’s a baby. There are tears. I pick up the baby. I look at the monitor. I wait. The monitor crackles with static and I hear the sounds of a baby. She’s somewhere in our house. She’s crying. I need to find her.
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