Last night I had two nightmares wherein my children were eating me alive.
The first dream was more like a movie, and I was watching a dad realize that his children had turned into flesh eating monsters, and he was struggling to escape from the house. The children were relentless, crashing through doors, breaking through windows, coming on despite the violence they were met with. He finally did get out — and set the house of fire to boot — but then, somehow, he ended up getting dragged back in and consumed in the flames.
In the second dream, I was the one being chased and consumed. I did not set fire to the house, but only because I didn’t get the opportunity.
What was most distressing to me is the lengths to which we went through to get away from the children. Kicking, hitting with lengths of wood (don’t ask me where the wood came from), slamming doors, setting fire to the house.
Not that I would do any of those things to my children, but it makes abundantly clear to me that I need a break. A space of time free of my children.
It’s the relentless logistics of the care (and I’ve written about this before): the feeding, the bathing, the dressing, the putting to bed, the potty training, the brushing of teeth, the putting to bed, again.
I love my children, and I would throw myself in front of a train for them. (Why? Why this metaphor?)
But momma’s feeling a little worn out.