I became convinced that one of the children was actually Anand, and I just hadn't recognized him, and he hadn't recognized me, and the mother was insisting that this child was months younger and maybe she was right, they didn't really look so much alike. And then I noticed that he was wearing the orange Munchkin onesie that Karen got me, which is not a common item of baby apparel, and I just became more and more convinced that really, this was my child, and I was going to have to fight these people to get him back. And how could I not be sure whether he was my child or not? Babies don't look that much alike -- or at least toddlers don't. It was awful.
Clearly, I have not entirely managed to shrug off the mama-guilt that I had a day yesterday working from home when I could have kept the children with me instead of sending them off to be watched by strangers. And I sent them off anyway. (Obviously, at this point, the daycare teachers aren't actually strangers. But that's the default rhetoric.)
I suppose it's good that the psychology of my dreams is so obvious, because it makes it a little easier to shrug off the existential dread. But also, I wish I would just get over it already. The kids like school, their teachers are sweet, I actually let Kavi stay home for a couple of hours yesterday morning and by ten she was asking to go to school because she was bored at home with me and wanted to see her friends, so really, mama, get over it, already. These societal guilt messages, they are not for you. Your kids are fine, and you are not a bad mother for letting other people play with them while you get some work done and (horrors!) rest a little.
Tell that to my subconscious.
Friday, dammit, I'm going to a matinee of The King's Speech. Take that, dreaming self!