The dream where my kids weren't my kids

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 Clearly I have been partaking in a few too many beverages while on holiday.

I had a dream – only it wasn’t one of my usual dreams filled with cocktails and the cast of Magic Mike.

This time I was the Head Mistress of my former boarding school.

The Feral Threesome were all boarders, nevermind the fact that it's an all-girls school.  Somehow Mstr4 made the cut. 

I have always said he is my princess girly man. 

Anywho, let me set the scene.

You’re on a tropical holiday where the drinks are cheap and your kids are safely back at home with their father (fist bump, #1Hubby).

You’re enjoying the $1 Happy Hour cocktails in bars who don’t know the concept of an hour.  It’s more like Happy 4 Hours.

Full of happy hour happiness, you happily jump in the lift, back up to your room.  A room you are sharing with nobody.  A room with a big, big bed covered in soft white linens.

You sink into said bed, exhausted from a day of shopping, wining and dining, and evening cocktails featuring some impressive dance moves that you did not know you possessed pre-cocktails.

Sleep comes quickly.

Only to transport you to the dream where you are suddenly in charge of not just 3 of your own children, rather over 100 of other peoples’ children.

And they’re paying a lot of money for you to nurture them as good as, if not better than, they themselves would.

You can’t really tell them off too much, lest they whine to their parents.

You are stuck with them, in a prisonesque fortress (no exaggeration – we’re talking bars on windows here, people), every waking minute of every day.

And the three biggest trouble makers –

Smoking out the window of the music room (ahem…not that I’ve ever known anyone to do that in a boarding house)

Spraying deodorant and powder in the smoke detector so the fire brigade come in all their uniformed glory (ahem…not that I’ve ever known anyone to do that in a boarding house)

But I self-incriminate digress…

- the three biggest trouble makers, they are your own children.

Only this is a dream and they’re not actually your children.

So you can’t threaten them and yell at them.  You have to smile and attempt to reason with them.

Holy mother of Vodka did I wake up with a start.

Heart racing.

Sweating.

The works.

Am convinced it is karma kicking my arse for leaving the kids at home for the second time in months, to cross the globe and act like a childless singleton.

Point noted, karma.  I will be back to parent and nurture them shortly.