Two nights ago I dreamed of Steve and his wife Nichole. They had a baby, a girl. She had an enormous head - far too big for her tiny body - and it was heavy like a bowling ball.
I remember distinctly from the dream that the baby’s head was difficult to hold or support with only one hand because of its great weight and one was fearful of allowing the poor thing to slip from your arms and go crashing through the floor and into a lower room.
The baby spent most of her time in bed, propped up against multiple pillows carefully arranged to prevent lateral movement, watching television.
The giant watermelon-sized head itself was remarkable because, although it was perfectly formed, the baby’s face occupied only a small area in the center of the thing. The face was normal, more or less, though tiny in the extreme and the right eyelid drooped lazily.
In this dream, I conversed with the baby, sat with her on the bed, and found her to be in every way a delightful child. Her intelligence was undimmed by her condition and she was well behaved. I was fondly disposed towards the girl - the heavy head - in the dream.
But, my god, the weight of that head.
It left an imprint on me like the imprint of a shotput on a pile of freshly folded underwear.