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The One Thing I Crave as a Middle-Aged Mom
No, it’s not wine or chocolate
I have a recurring dream — a very pleasant one. It takes place in my home, though the home may or may not resemble the house I actually live in.
No matter what is going on in the dream, there comes a point when I discover a room, sometimes an entire floor, that I never knew existed. It is always furnished, never lavishly, but it’s comfortable and it’s quiet and it’s all mine.
In the dream, I never actually use the room. I find it, and then I wake up, the excitement of my discovery tingling down my spine. “To think, it’s been there the entire time,” I say to myself, and as I sit up in bed, the tingles give way to the heavy crush of disappointment. There is no secret room, I realize, and most definitely no secret floor.
My husband is amused by my dream. He thinks my subconscious is telling me I want a bigger house. But that’s not quite it. All in all, I’m quite content in our small, old home.
It’s not about the number of rooms — it’s about having one all to myself. A space where I can hear my own thoughts. A space removed from sticky hands and crumb-strewn floors, from the press of bodies and unrelenting needs.
In my daytime fantasies, I allow my mind to linger on not a room, but an entire house…
