The Beacon

The mind works in mysterious ways. Yesterday my conscious mind was delivered a snapshot of Gotham City’s Batman Distress Beacon. Clearly, my subconscious mind had been safe-guarding that image over the years and felt a sudden urge to expose it to me. The comedic association between the image and events that were occurring at that time wasn’t lost on me. I was distressed. I wished I could send out a beacon sometimes that would alert a super-power to swoop forth and rescue me. Perhaps it could make “Perfect Mother” appear, waving wand and wisdom, casting peace and calmness upon us all. Truth is though, I don’t believe such a super-power exists. The Perfect Mother is an urban legend, whose mythical presence is sadly perpetuated every time one of us imperfect mothers believe we are less than Her. 

Let me share with you how I arrived at the point of despair. My distress beacon triggered when my youngest son felt a sudden rush of deprivation because he believed his brother had stolen his pen. A fairly standard sort of incident in isolation. However, he consequently made his dissatisfaction with the situation apparent as he forcefully pulled out the kitchen drawer to find a replacement pen. Given that his emotions aren’t yet in harmony with his physical strength, the drawer came right off its rollers and plummeted to the kitchen floor, along with all of its contents. Nice one. It wasn’t just any drawer either. It was the drawer... you know, the one that contains ALL things - from paper clips, envelopes, and lunch forms, to untried recipes, shopping lists, and pens. Lots of pens. FABULOUS! That meant I had to add yet another job to all the others I was simultaneously juggling (only I would know how to reconstruct the drawer contents so everything was back in its rightful place). So now there was a floor covered in “stuff”, a pot boiling on the stove, chilled (rapidly moving to soggy) pastry on the bench waiting to be cut and baked, and a builder impatiently knocking on the kitchen door to indicate he needed my input before continuing. I was also on the phone to a friend who had called me just prior to the ‘trigger point’ to ask me what I was planning to bring to a pot luck dinner she's having... in 3 weeks time! ARGH! To make matters worse, I’d seen some of the lunch money coins roll under the fridge when the drawer dropped. Whilst balancing the phone in the crook of my neck, I’d lunged to floor in a desperate attempt to retrieve them, and noticed all kinds of shit under the fridge that I’d been blissfully unaware of before. So then I had to make a mental note to add that to my list of cleaning to do tomorrow. Oh, but that’s right, I had to go to ‘work’ tomorrow. The cleaning would have to wait until I got home from ‘work.’ I’d probably need to make an appointment with the chiropractor too since my neck would more than likely be out.  

Normally, I’m a very organised and methodical person, but I have to admit that right about then, I started having ‘issues’ prioritising. To make matters worse, the son I’d banished for his drawer-dropping crime was wailing cries of injustice from his bedroom, while the other seemed to have his computer turned up to maximum volume so I could hear the moronic  cessation cry of every zombie he ran over with a lawn mower.

For me, there is a cut-off point when my brain stops functioning, and I’d hit it. I assume it does this to preserve itself from combustion. I recognise the moment it occurs, and slip into my “resign and wine” (RAW) stage. Amazing how a couple of sips of wine (OK, gulps) can still the mind to a point of apathy and things start to seem manageable again. 

My husband arrived home from work just then, and saw me chilling with a glass of wine. “Cruisy day?” he asks, looking vigorous and full of energy after being at ‘work’ all day. He doesn’t actually look me in the eye when he says it though, because he’s too busy checking out the suggestive (though not intentional) gap in my sarong, trying to assess whether I’m wearing underwear not. I give him the death-glare. He knows what that means and retreats. Smart move. 

Dinner and drama over and forgotten, I tucked the previously banished son up in bed and read him a bedtime story. We also had a quiet discussion about anger management, which is always easier to do in a more calm and serene environment, whilst fairy lights glisten in his room. Just before lights out, we went through our common ritual about how much we love each other and how tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes, full of possibility and wonder (I watched a lot of Anne of Green Gables when I was a child - she was always so very optimistic). Is he the perfect son? No. Am I the perfect Mum? No. But we have many perfect moments. I never cease to be amazed how one brief moment of shared love can instantly dissipate all the angst that precedes it. It’s a powerful thing. It’s the real super-power that without fail, always ultimately responds to my distress beacon. 

Mum’s the Word:

P.M.S. alternatively stands for “Perfect Mother Syndrome.” It’s a psychological disease. We need not suffer from it though, as it can be unconditionally slayed by a greater power.