RESCUE ME
I’ve often wondered if it’s possible to overdose on rescue remedy. It’s been one of those weeks.
Sometimes I feel so overwhelmed with the responsibility of Motherhood that the mere prospect of having to absorb one more school newsletter, or having to rummage head down, bum up through the lost property basket for the umpteenth time, feels like an insurmountable task. I’ve had to endure a spate of losses in recent days, ranging from a school hat (which was appropriately named, yet still managed to elude capture and identification), to a favourite bedtime cuddle buddy, whose sudden and unexplained departure resulted in a reaction more appropriately reserved for the loss of a limb. My own Mum always taught me to pray to Saint Anthony in times of need, but I think he must have been on holiday this week, or perhaps too busy addressing more urgent matters of global importance.
On top of all of that, I was hauled back by my son’s teacher after class one day to be advised that he ‘wasn’t coping’ with a particular aspect of the curriculum. Despite the fact I fully appreciate a Mother may tend towards a biased and exaggerated view of her child’s abilities, I still found it difficult to swallow the ‘criticism.’ I also quietly resented the fact that armed with this newfound knowledge, I’d have to add the extra task of having a deep and meaningful conversation with my son to the usual bedtime proceedings that night. Naturally, his interpretation of the problem only served to complicate matters. So ultimately I became trustee to both sides of the story, such that my loyalties were reluctantly divided between teacher and child.
I don’t remember things being so complex when my children were babies. Or perhaps they always were, just different, and I’ve forgotten. What I do know is that they will always need us to help them find the things they have lost, and they will always need us to help them gain the things they haven’t yet found.
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