The other night I had this dream that I was happily running people through with a broad sword; left and right, just ecstatically hacking folks to pieces. Even worse, when I awoke, I felt neither horror nor shame, but rather a sense of joyous contentment. Yikes! What is wrong with me? I tried to find possible triggers, but found none, as I’m reading a slow-moving biography of Mary Todd Lincoln, sans duels, and binge-watching “The Great British Bake Off,” where the use of large cutlery has been infrequent. Why, then, was my subconscious so full of sociopathic rage? Ahn yes. My college-aged children are still home.
I’m only slightly exaggerating here. You go five months of a certain routine that involves quiet, order, low Meijer bills, available laundry machines and slow-moving evenings and mornings, then suddenly, very needy, adult-size humans descend like an angry swarm of bees, demanding hugs and dinner and 1-on-1 time — and there’s not a darn thing you can do about it until school recalls them four excruciatingly long weeks later.
And especially for me, an introvert who relies on the “out of sight, out of mind” principle for reducing maternal anxiety, their constant presence, while delightful for a few days, slowly erodes my patience and sanity. When I would normally enjoy a post-work sudoku game alone on my couch before minimally engaging with husband and high schooler, now I am bombarded with the frenetic energy of 20-somethings and their subsequent messiness from the minute I walk in the door until I escape to my bedroom and collapse in exhaustion.
So, yeah, I’m murdering people in my dreams. Can you really blame me?