My friend Tricia was the first of my college-friends-who-I’m-still-in-touch-with to have a baby (with my former pseudo arch-nemesis Cait coming in at a close second). It’s not too surprising, then, that her daughter Georgia has lodged herself fairly deeply inside my subconscious.

Since Georgia was born last December, she’s been the star of a series of (mostly half-remembered) dreams. They spring from all sorts of semi-concious desires, from my frustration in having not yet met li’l G (unless you count prenatal hellos directed at her mother’s belly), to my own ambivilant half-formed desires for a wee one of my own.

More often than not, the dreams just consist of sitting and playing with G, or hanging out with a toddler her and Tricia in a future playground someplace. Here are the exceptions:

1. I’m working on an photo-illustrated version of ‘Snow White,’ with Georgia in the title role (she’s a shoo-in for the part. Seriously, check out that complexion). I engage in a long internal debate over whether Prince Charming should have Down’s Syndrome, like Georgia, or not. Strangely, in dream state, I don’t seem to notice that G’s a bit young for princes (Edit: or princesses!) of any stripe.

2. I’m catsitting for a friend when I realize all of a sudden that it’s not cats I’m watching, but Georgia. Soon after, I give birth to my own baby, identical to Georgia in every way, excepting the fact that she can play the trombone.