I was me, which isn't always the case in my dreams. I was also the age that I am now, but I had children-- two, I think both boys. One was I think supposed to be around six or so, and looked a lot like my youngest brother, and he may in fact not have been mine, but the infant was mine, a very young infant. Somehow, and I think his name was Nicholas (which is a name I would probably never give any of my sons), he got lost. I remember running screaming downstairs as soon as we realized he was lost and getting into an argument with an incredibly stereotypical 1940s American Irish drunkard, bloated red face and newsy cap and all, who was either the father, or the father's father (either way I think he was mad that I had a child at all)-- he was chasing me and wanted to beat me and I beat him away with a large tree branch while screaming, bellowing, "our children come first." I ran everywhere looking and eventually exhausted myself and passed out. In the dream I woke up sick to my stomach, but the first thing my mother did when she saw me was yell at me for not being dressed, as she wanted to go out to lunch. I was shocked that she could possibly expect that of me when my son was missing, but it turned out they'd found him while I passed out and not found it necessary to tell me. I remember wandering into my father's bedroom, where my son was asleep on the bed next to my father, and the relief and joy was so overpowering that I woke up, and in the strange moment between the end of the dream and opening my eyes I was actually determined to grab my cellphone and call one of my closest friends and tell her my son had been found, already picking which Russian diminutive of Nicholas I wanted to use, everything was okay, it felt so real.