3.30am Doorbell

There's a rush of adrenaline when the doorbell shrills at 3.30am. Quickly followed by a twisting gut punch when, on approaching the front door, the loud rasping crackle of a powerful transmitter radio insinuates a dire message into the house before the door even opens.

First reaction on opening the door: relief - he's alive.

Second reaction: how alive? Scanning in a split second for what might be coming, brain on high alert, all senses heightened due to the adrenal glands sending a powerful surge of hormones into the body.

Third reaction: momentarily struck dumb. What do you say?

"Good evening Officer, what can I do to help you this evening/morning?"

Or, "Hello son, how was your night? Pleased you got a ride home."

Or, "Hi".

I went with the latter, which kind of emerged in an extraordinarily inarticulate way, if it is possible to be inarticulate with one word. It was 3.30am after all and I tend not to have a lengthy vocabulary on call at this hour.

Fourth reaction: bugger bugger bugger. I'm in my pyjamas and there's no wafting smell of 'happy-home 2am Tropical Escape Muffins" coming from the kitchen which should be, as my lovely Followers will know, immaculately presented as is the rest of my house.

Nope, I'm out of mangoes, the house is a normal lived in mess, and I'm in my pjs. Gorgeous - all that practice waiting around for the 2am doorbell and when it comes, I'm looking like any worried parent would at 3.30am (decent pjs and dressing gown of course with a messy bed hair ‘do’).

There's been a group of boys kicking over letter boxes and damaging gardens, the Police Officer tells me.

Brain in overdrive. I breathe out really really slowly. As I write this at 4.30am I see myself standing at that door and notice a shift in myself from the (contained!) hysteria of three months ago, and the far more open and accepting Self that has taken me over tonight. Also, I notice I’m reserving my reactions and assumptions. This is good. Gold star. There's the hammering heart, but I can't be in control of everything in a split second.

“We are satisfied your son was not involved in the incident and I have been asked to drop him home”, says the Officer.

Apparently, there was a round up on the streets and a number of kids had been in the station being questioned. It was a bunch of the Focker kids who had been engaging in the stupidity. Teen1 rattled off the names of the Fockers which the Officer verified.

“Go inside and let your mother get back to sleep”, the Officer directs.

I find my voice come out with : “oh believe me Officer, I've not been asleep at all, I've been up texting and calling him”.

What’s that all about? The "good girl" inside me, that wants the authority figure to know that I've been 'doing the right thing'? Very sad. I definitely need more therapy around that issue.

Finally, the Officer directs a pointed look at Teen 1: “you ought to be on a very short leash from now on. 15 year old boys should be home in bed at 11pm”.

The only effective short leash my son needs to be on, is the size of the metal one attached to the officer's handcuffs.

Inside, I observe my suspiciously slightly wasted looking boy and ask him for his story. “Not me mum, I'd never do that stuff, we were just walking around and the cops picked us all up. Those (Focker) guys are seriously messed up, they aren't my friends”. [Note: the very same guys who were his best mates three months ago].

“You look tired mum, go to sleep”. He smiles, opens his arms, gives me a warm hug (the first he's initiated since.... Christmas? 2007?) and says, “there you go, you can go to sleep now”.

Was he wasted? Manipulating? Or just a boy relieved that I am here, I am not going nuts at him, and who knows that wherever I am, there will be a warm bed for him?

He's right, the hug did help but now it is 5am and I'm still awake! Out, out damn blog.

Hoping for all parents that their doorbell doesn't ever ring at 3.30am, and their sleeps are long and peaceful.