There is an old Disney animated movie that no doubt many of you have heard of called The Sword in the Stone about the adventures of young King Arthur (known as “Wart” in the movie) who is on his way to becoming king under the wise tutelage of the wizard Merlin. It is my son A's favourite Disney movie (but then, he has about 49 other “favourite” Disney/Pixar movies, so this doesn't mean much). I also like it, especially because of this one part in the movie, where Merlin is trying to explain something to Wart, and Merlin is getting really, really frustrated, until he finally just says; “Blow me to Bermuda!” And with that, Merlin becomes a fiery blue rocket and shoots off, presumably to Bermuda. The reason this moment resonates with me so very much is because I have had many such moments (or mom-ents, as I like to call them) with my children, moments that I refer to privately as “Blow me to Bermuda” moments. These are times of ultimate frustration, despair, and struggle while parenting, times when I just want to shout, “Blow me to Bermuda!” and take off like a me-shaped rocket, to a land of quiet, sandy beaches, where I will lay on a white chaise lounge while hunky shirtless men bring me cocktails and fan me with palm fronds. I've never been to Bermuda, but this is what I'm sure it will be like when I eventually land there.
Examples of such mom-ents include:
It is the hottest day of the summer, and the children are whining and lying on top of me on the couch, clutching at me whilst sporadically fighting with each other. Blow me to Bermuda.
I am trying to get one naked child dressed while the other one removes her clothing in frustration because she wanted the PINK princess underwear, but not THAT pink princess underwear, and we had to leave the house five minutes ago. Just blow me the heck to Bermuda.
We are finally sitting at the dinner table after I have just prepared a complicated meal (by my standards, which means it has more than three ingredients) over a hot stove, and the children are both expressing vehement distaste for said meal. Also, we are out of wine. My husband and I look at each other, pleadingly, over the chaos. Blow us BOTH to Bermuda.
So there you have it. Any scenario that seems just so frustratingly helpless that even if it could be helped, I am too exhausted or overwhelmed to help it right now: these are “Blow me to Bermuda” scenarios.
But, of course, I would never leave my children alone in this fantasy, because then what kind of mother would I be?! No—I have played this all out in my mind to its most logical conclusion: after I turn into a rocket and blow the heck out of there, the practically perfect Mary Poppins appears and cares for my children and sings and dances with them and dresses them up like little British schoolchildren, in the most delightful way.
Just do not give my children a spoonful of sugar before bed, Mary Poppins, because you WILL regret that decision. And then we will BOTH end up in Bermuda.