dreaming as therapy

I probably shouldn't share this story. I already feel somewhat responsible for some of the readers of this blog's decision not to have children.
As I said recently on the other blog, blogging about parenting is a constant balance between trying not to gush too much, and not wanting to be an awfully moaning bore. Parenting does however seem to occupy one or the other of these extremes most of the time.

So I won't go into too much detail about how COMPLETELY FUCKING NUTS my just-turned 3 year old is driving me.
I'll just relate the dream I had two nights ago and let that speak for itself ...

I dreamed I was at some lovely day time event, sans kids, facing a massively indulgent buffet table, perusing the options.
I selected a thick slice of farm baked bread, spread lusciously with butter and my Mum's delicious apricot jam.

As I walked away from the table savouring this treat a scrawny teenage Goth girl approached me and whined, 'Aw, please can I have a bite?'
I wasn't thrilled but begrudgingly offered my slice to her, whereupon she started moaning, 'Why did you put jam on it? I hate jam? Scrape the jam off!'

In my dream I saw red. With the flat of my hand I ground the whole slice of bread, butter and jam hard into her whiny face, eventually causing her to topple over and when she was lying on the ground, I stood over her, placed my foot on her chest and, pushing down hard, shouted at her to SHUT UP and never, ever speak to me like that. EVER!

If there was ever any doubt that one's dreams tackle one's subconscious, lay those to rest. My dream blew off some of the steam which mounts within me every day during this incredibly challenging parenting stage we're in.
Sorry little Goth girl, but thanks for the release.