Wonder Woman and Maternal Dreamscapes
This article was originally published on Blue as an Orange - Dream Journal
Alex has to be at school by 7:15 to catch the bus for the fieldtrip. He tells me this at
7:12. I have no contact numbers for the other mothers at this school, so I cannot call for help,
confirmation, advice nor comfort. We go. I am dressed in Wonder Woman pajama pants and a
Star Wars t-shirt, my hair wrapped around a large pink curler in a hopeful effort to tame the
relentless cowlick that sculpts my bangs into angular chaos. Alex dubs my curler-do Queen
Amidala hair. We run out the door, toothbrushing finished in perfect rhythm of our paces,
granola bar and two apples tossed and zipped into the pack in between our long-legged lunging
steps. We are practiced in the art of grooming, hygiene and self-care on the run. Alex is 14
now, sporting a Clark Gable mustache, rumpled Khakis and a Logo’ d polo short, mostly
compliant with the Catholic school uniform policy. My red white and blue pants with Marvel’s
latest version of Wonder Woman ‘s face is not compliant with the school’s uniform policy. I
hope he remembered socks. We are not Catholic. We live one block from the small class-size
private middle school, but there is construction along the way. I am blocked, tick tock it is
7:13. I assess the leap from where we are to the truck that has caused the jam up – it’s about a
15-foot gap, I am sure of this distance, simple physics. If I can make that jump, we can move
around this barrier and Alex will not be that one kid left behind when the bus departs. I don’t
even know about a fieldtrip, maybe today is when they go to the beach? I grab Alex, leap and
my left arm catches the beam of the truck no, this is a beam on the building. It is a dream after
all, plot gaps are embraced, move on. The beam loosens and begins to sag to the ground,
slowly, gently like a benevolent heavenly arm. I hang on to Alex, it is not an effort, he is not a
burden. I got this I think to myself. We will make it. It is only 7:14. Two officers arrive, arrest
me. They are young, I judge them, they are about the age of my older son. They seem amused
by this mom who calmly shares her tale… I explain to them … my son tells me he must be at
school you see, in 3 minutes you see, there was construction you see… They let me go. I am the
mother of boys, there is something ancient in that distinction, like a secret handshake but
touch no longer even needed. Their eyes could not resist my Amidala curler. As I leave, and
deliver my son to the school yard, 7:15, I am a batter safely across the base. The herd of
children who have all arrived before us, on time, perfectly prepared by their better than I am
parents turn to look at me. The girls move their heads together, cover their mouths, snicker. I
straighten to my full 5’8”. I fill myself with a deep breath, ground myself – be this self that I am,
I just traversed space and time. An invisible but palpable burst moves out from me in
concentric circles and pressed into them. Something shifts, I see it, their shoulders straighten,
they are now awed, and I hear them “Oh, so THAT’s how to dress if I want to be authentic”. I
know curlers and rumpled pjs are in their future. Yeah, it’s the pants that convinced them, I
think to myself, and snicker a bit. Okay, I know I made that part up even in this dream world but
this REM avatar controls the script.