Last night I dreamed that I was with a toddler son who was being very naughty in a restaurant. The woman sitting next to me complained, so I took the boy out into a hallway and hugged and hugged him, because apparently I love naughty little boys.
Anyway. I woke up in a melancholy mood, because the dream got at something that's been just below the surface with me awhile, which is this: I am at loose ends.
I never thought that I defined myself as a mother. Sure, I had five busy boys, but I was busy with other things, too--teaching, writing, bookselling. In fact, I used to fantasize about the life I have now--a life where I have room to breathe.
However! That life had purpose just by its very structure. I HAD to feed and dress and manage five little people. It was often boring, but it had to be done, and I knew it, and I did it. Mostly. Except for that time all my kids went to the doctor's not wearing underwear.
Right now, though, I feel like a lot of what I do doesn't matter much. It's weird. I'm surprised by how very displaced I feel.
I'll figure it out.