Centrepiece Online | Fall 2011

Centre of my dreams

Dream 1: You’ve Got Mail! I’m at the Centre post office (in my dream, it’s at its previous location, Old Carnegie, which now houses Career Services). I can see through my little mailbox window that it is JAMMED FULL of mail (the folding kind—snail mail). I spin the little combination wheel—to the left, to the right, to the left again and . . . nothing. I’ve forgotten my combination. No problem—I’ll just ask Postmistress Penny Glass to hand me my STACKS of mail. What’s this? The post office window is closed. I’ll have to wait to get at my huge piles of correspondence from my family and friends.

Questions: Have you had this dream? If so, contact me via snail or e-mail so we can chat about the meaning. Do you think a few visits with a therapist would be in order?

Dream 2: Drop Class? I’m in class. Calculus, I think. The professor is passing out the final. Wait—final? How can this be? Isn’t it the beginning of the semester? I haven’t even bought the textbook yet. Mind racing to recall the drop-class deadline—probably a bit late for that. Brain working to access lucid dream mode button. Cortisol levels hit a new high as the professor hands me the exam and wishes me luck.

Questions: We’ve all had this dream, yes? Sometimes it’s clothing optional. I’m thinking I don’t need a therapist’s help to interpret this one—thoughts on that?

Dream 3: I’m Coming with You, Right? I’m dropping my daughter off at Centre. Getting her settled into her dorm room. She’s already registered for her classes. I’m registering for classes now, too! Anthropology, econ, calculus. Um, is this going to morph into dream No. 2? No, this is going a different direction. Looking for the building where my first class is located. Why doesn’t any of this look familiar? When did they add all these new buildings? A nice lady comes up to help me. She reminds me that it’s not me but my daughter who is starting her freshman year. Confusion turns to relief (tinged, admittedly, with a bit of envy). I won’t be getting a second undergraduate degree after all. Silly me.

Questions: Is this what Mona Wyatt was referring to in her article about parents who won’t let go? Am I tending toward velcro or helicopter parenting?

Dream 4: The Hippie Dream. It’s Aug. 18, 2011. I’ve spent the summer telling my daughter about all the fabulous professors she’s going to meet, the unbelievable classes she’s going to take, and friends she’s going to make. I’m dropping her off at her dorm. Reminding myself how much more prepared she is than I was back in ’84, I smile, denying all velcro/helicopter tendencies. Proud that I refrain from making her bed (okay, that was easy to skip—I’ve not done that for her even once at home), I’m leaving before President Roush arrives on the scene to help me find the door. We’re saying our goodbyes in the hall. Out of nowhere, a strong urge to remind her to never, under any circumstances, mix bleach and ammonia, pops into my head. Never mind that she has neither of these items in her possession. I squelch the words before they can leave my mouth—I’m no helicopter! I hug her, tell her I’ll see her soon, and head down the stairs. Make it to the parking lot. Having trouble finding my car. Something in my eyes making it hard to see. Ms. Wyatt hands me a tissue. “I’m leaving now—really. Just need to text my daughter a little laundry tip . . . ”