It's Time To Retire The Matron

That's right, friends.   Minnesota Matron is tired.  Not the actual person herself (well, sometimes) but the blog has run its course.  

But what a run it has been!

Saturday, September 1, 2007 the Matron began chronicling the antics, pains, pleasures and problems associated with these three. 

Stryker, who was later dubbed He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN) was just 11!  Here he is a bit earlier than that.   The Matron's firstborn was certainly a hot topic on this blog, even if he didn't always endorse that practice. 

He's now a man.  In college!  Do you remember when she thought he might never get there?!

Then there was the girl in the middle!

Stage Mother!  Now, SHE'S truly tired.  But the theater kid can drive now.   Which helps a lot!

Because there are still auditions, rehearsals, and performances filling up the calendar.   Everything this lovely, generous young woman does feels a little like good-bye to her mother.  She too is growing on up and out.  Happy second half of your junior year of high school, darling!  

In just a tiny squirt of time -- a year and a half - there will be just one child in this house.

Thank God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe for the little guy!

There are some signs of danger, however.   He is in middle school!   She liked it better when sixth-grade was still elementary.

Merrick is definitely going to have a "certain way" with the ladies, much like his father.  We heard about that man here, too.

Of course, we can't forget Satan's Familiar or his compatriot Evil Doer.

So many stories!  So much light and life in this house, says the Matron.

She has made many, many friends through this blog -- Green Girl, Blog This Mom, Suburban Correspondent, Suburban Mom.  Mrs. G.   Turns out that these women have actual normal names.  And are now just a few of the many real friends the Matron met through blogging. 

Thank you, Internet and Facebook!  Thank you amazing women!

If you're a blog friend and/or reader who wants to stay in touch, the Matron frolics frequently on Facebook -- she's flexes that creative muscle there from time to time as well.   Mary Petrie.  St. Paul.   It's not tricky to find her (and who is kidding who about any privacy whatsoever at all).

Funny.  It does feel a bit like that at the moment.  It's been magic, yes, and now it is ending.  Thank you, too, for buying, supporting and cheering on this book!  Oh -- and there's that website, should you want to reach her that way. 

The Matron remains very much up in the thick of all those stories and lives she shared here.  That run?  Still going strong.  She hopes yours is, too, faithful reader.

Here's to your creative spirits!  Thank you for sustaining hers these wonderful, seven + years.   Now, onto 2015 and the various beauty and friendship we will all find there.

Claiming These Men As Her Own

Tuesday, the Matron heard the news today that yet again a white police officer who killed an unarmed black man was not indicted, this time in New York. This is news some people take note of a LOT. IF you are a black person in America, someone is after your men. Targeting, arresting, beating, and imprisoning black men (women too, but the Matron is thinking men at the moment) is something that white folk -- maybe especially here in the Midwest -- don't really have to think about. Sorta not right smack in front of us. Her, anyway. Then yours truly thought about what she’s taught her children -- that whoever they love, she will love. The Matron has taught her children to love freely and huge, to love without hesitation or boundaries or rules. Their love might be same-sex, black, white, rich, poor, transgender, brown, asian . . . whatever. Today, hearing the news (once again) about injustice against a black man -- crimes -- she drove past a young black boy, bundled up against the cold and trudging his way home and realized that if her children have truly incorporated that message of love, then this black boy might someday be her grandson. If her children have the whole wide world of humanity from which to choose a life partner, their children might not be necessarily white. Because she is thinking men at the moment, black men in particular, she looked at that little boy beating it home after the school bus and thought: my baby. Grandson. From this day forward, that is how the Matron will see all black men, too. Those little boys grow up and then those men might be mine and she would HAVE to see the injustice, would forever know when her own blood spilled. Why wait? She will claim them as her own, now.

Book Give Away!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

At the End of Magic

by Mary Petrie

Giveaway ends December 20, 2014.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Lovely bloggy friends -- please spread the word to your friends and readers on Goodreads! Promotion R Us, says the Matron (however puny those efforts may be).

More! Says The Matron

The Matron was the beneficiary of a small but beautiful blessing when she stumbled across this review on Goodreads yesterday! 

"I went into the book with few expectations, and emerged with the feeling that whatever else Mary writes, I'll read it. It took a couple of chapters for me to fall in love, but I did without a doubt. My pace picked up, my sleep was forfeited, and I raced to the finish. The magic was beautifully woven in, and Delphi's attitude towards it absolutely believable. Holly's character is beautifully drawn, and Leilani's delightfully complex. Loved it."

Everyone likes a good review, but the Matron felt undue pleasure over this one.  Joy!  Goosebumps!  Incredulation!   She let these sensations simmer a bit and then examined them. 

It turns that she does not quite believe she is the real deal after all.   

You know the imposter issue, where you sorta feel like you're faking it?

The Matron felt that way (at first) about being a mother.  That sense of pretending or being half-hearted mama persisted until her third child was born.   Indeed, that is part of the reason the Matron felt the need to have one more child-- to prove (to herself and everyone else) that she was doing the deed, really rocking this mama thing.  Look at me!  I have three!  

Somehow, a boat load of children finally made her a mother.  

The fact that she required external validation was not lost on the Matron.  The fact that she laboriously orchestrated (really? a pregnancy?) said external validation was also duly noted.  She is still attending to that product, too. He is 11. 

So yesterday's glowing review -- by a complete stranger, nonetheless -- was that outsider, looking in, to say:  "yes indeed.  The real deal."

And this real deal writer also feels the sweet satisfaction of someone enjoying her work!   How lovely to think of these characters she created, keeping a reader up at night.   

Way to go, Leilani!

Way to go, Matron!   Well done, if she does say so herself this time.  

But of course . . . wouldn't one more book tighten the whole thing up?  Just like Merrick did for the mama problem?

So the psyche spins . . . 

Yes. Writing about Weather Again

Dear God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe,

The Matron thinks there has been a misunderstanding. You know, this January weather before Thanksgiving? Ice-packed roads, single-digit temperatures, biting wind, feet of blowing snow. Ring a celestial bell? It occurs to me that You - in all Your wisdom, of course, but being also VERY busy running the world -- may have mistaken the Matron for a trooper. And thus sent January in November? 

God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe:  it is official.  The Matron is not a trooper.  She is not rising to the challenge of ice and chill.  She is not gamely moving forward.She is not embracing winter's edge, with my wool cap pulled tight and attitude, chipper. Nope.  The Matron would be the woman wrapped in numerous layers of clothing with a space heater by her side, shaking her fist at the sky (not at You, of course. The sky) and saying: "Too soon! Too soon!"

Well!

She hopes this clears up any misunderstanding and sheds light on her actual position here in the world -- not a trooper. Cold. A wee bit bitter, actually.

Thank You for rectifying this situation. She looks foward to the thrill of throwing open the shades tomorrow morning and seeing November's 40 degree return.

Say It Ain't Snow, So (Much Too)

When will the Matron ever learn?

Because Panic and Crisis prevail every first snow.  It is all:  "where are my boots! I need better gloves! Don't you remember that my coat ripped to shreds last year?! I want a BLUE hat not a red one! These boots aren't *right* on me!"

Dear children: no piece of clothing or footware designed to save you from arctic death is *right.* Everything about a boatload of snow way before Thanksgiving is entirely *wrong.* Merrick, your mother is sorry that she forgot that you wore your coat -- literally -- to shreds last year. Of course you did. She will get you a new one. Tonight, it would appear.  

Then there are the texts from the teenager taking the city bus "STILL not here!" and Merrick's return from his bus stop: "I forgot to put shoes in my backpack!" So off she goes, driving Merrick back to the bus while praying that Scarlett's actually comes so that yours turly doesn't have to also drive downtown during their winter rush hour dramas.

Thank Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe-God.  The bus came.

Space heaters are now spread throughout the Matron's four story, 2800 square foot, 100 year old house with over 50 windows. Described thus so you understannd when she says "I work from home" this is code for:  " I am wearing wool socks, slippers, jeans, tank top, long-sleeved t-shirt, sweater, sweatshirt and sometimes hat in a wind-blown structure that eats our theoretical retirement savings as monthly heating bill."

If you discover the Matron's head in theoven, it's not because she went all Sylvia Plath. Swear. Just cooking up creative heat here in St. Paul while she waits for the next emergency snow-related text to arrive -- or even better, May

That Magic Touch

The Matron's youngest - sliding along through the middle of 11 -- recently learned to wink.  He's been practicing.   And folks?  He and that wink are irresistable.

Last Monday morning . . . . .

Matron: "Merrrick are you ready for the big book presentation in English today?"

Merrick: "What book?"

Friends, this is where the Matron sits down on the floor and rocks herself a little, like someone institutionalized or soon to be.   The Matron has devoted herself to that presentation, that book, Merrick's homework.   He is so unorganized that he sometimes thinks he attends an entirely different school!!

Matron: "The book you've been reading for a month - Granny -- the one you wrote all those notecards for and are preparing the presentation on."

Merrick: "I have no idea what that's all about."

Matron: "So you have these 10 note cards outlining the main points of the book. You've read the book. There's the worksheet on 'how to do a presentation.' Does any of this ring a bell?"

Merrick: "WELL. Just because I have all that STUFF done doesn't mean I know what I'm supposed to say during the presentation. Does it?"

No, apparantly, it does not.

Merrick: "Don't worry, Mom. I have it under control."

Matron: "And?"

Merrick (BIG WINK): "I got this one. Check out this face. Is it working on you?"

Wherein the Matron Gets Her Seinfeld On . . .

You were warned.  If you pettiness gives you cause to recoil, do so now or walk away.

For the Matron is whining about last week's wrestling match yoga class with Mr. Heave, Grunt, Rattle, & Roll.    She can take the grunts. The groans. The heaving with whistle and chur, and this in a space where there's supposed to be silence. Look! Here is the Matron, all stoic, when Mr. Heave, Grunt, Rattle & Roll falls out of a posture and tumbles his 6 foot self onto her mat, nearly knocking her MUCH tinier self right over. Here is the Matron, all saint-like, when Mr. HGRR -- who if you haven't yet noticed is COMPLETELY unaware of his surroundings and anything remotely akin to personal space --- shakes his jowels like a dog so that his spit and sweat can spatter the delicate skin of yours truly.

Ugh!

But then . . . in the most shocking and unacceptable turn of events . . . Mr. HGRR sops up his sweat with a steaming, soaking towel which he promptly tosses onto The MATRON'S MAT!

For folks who've never been to a yoga class -- that mat is sacred space. Your space. The universe. Nobody in the Matron's 20 years (that's right!) of committed yoga practice has used her mat as a laundry baset, let alone put a toe on it. Until last week.

Of course, yours truly pointedly picked up said disgusting item --- with her FOOT (because she was laying down) and HURLED it sideways. Which turned out to be highly conveniently for HGRR because now the towel was resituated right next to him, making it just that easy to swipe more sweat and, yes, send it right back -- splat-- to the middle of the Matron's mat again.

Here's where the situation took a turn for the juvenile, wherein she HURLS the towel back -- with any body part other than a hand --and tosses the death glare, but of course: Mr. HGRR doesn't notice. He's just all like - "oh, reach down and there's that towel again" -- as if it's perfectly natural. Just. The scheme of things.

. .
At one point, Matronly rage simmers into marvel. Wow. How is it possible to be so absolutely clueless to anyone or anything around you?

Next week, she's bringing a whistle.

Men Taking Up Too Much Space on the Train

That Other Child Speaks French, Too

Last night the Matron and her husband had good friends over for dinner.  Despite the fact that their child and hers have nothing in common except age (11), she is pretty sure that the two were switched at birth.

 Guess which child is reading which book?

 Guess which child was FORCED by a school assignment to read said book and which is on a Cather kick -- at age 11.

Matron: "Merrick, would you like to go to the library today?"

Merrick: "Are you forcing me?"

Matron: "Of course not! I just thought maybe you wanted to just check out some books."

Merrick: "Do you know me at all?"

The Matron Plans Panic

The Matron follows news of Ebola with growing panic interest.    Germany, Spain, United States.   West Africa.     That death rate?   Tip-toeing toward 70%.

The Matron appreciates how the discourse and language have changed.    Initially, that death rate was 50%.  Now it's a BIT bigger.  

The Director of the CDC initially said:  Ebola will never come to the U.S.

Now?

"We have to work now so that it is not the world's next new AIDS." 

Let us pause here and consider the Matron's response to Public Health Concern or Threat, generally.  Important psychological background information ahead:






About a month ago, the Matron found a bat sleeping on the basement stairs. After a few shrieks and faints, she managed to haul her husband down there to remove said villain. Leather gloves were used and cardboard, not human flesh, made contact with the vermin.

But, UGH! My, what teeth you have, Dracula! This is SO a picture from google!



Alas, that bat was to be the Matron's psychological undoing. She remembered the northern Minnesota man who died of rabies this summer: he didn't even know he had been bitten. Still, reason prevailed until she listened to This American Life's Halloween Real Life Horror stories on RABIES. Specifically, about a woman who couldn't rip the rabid raccoon off of her.

Oh My God. While listening, the Matron peeked outside by the garbage can, checking for raccoons. Or skunks. Wildlife, in general.

Then, the radio narrator issued this warning: if you ever find a sleeping bat in a child's bedroom, that child must be vaccinated against rabies! Children or the infirm can be bitten without knowing, while they sleep. Now, being the infirm herself, Matron did what any rational, phobia and panic-oriented person might do at that moment.

She got online and starting researching bats and rabies. Yup. Dropped everything in the middle of a busy day and got going on THAT special project.

The upshot of this endeavor was that the Matron became inclined to - and did! -- type her very own little email message to the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, querying those good folk about the sleeping bat in her basement and the possibility that her entire family was already doomed but didn't know it. Now, do you know anyone else who sends email messages to the CDC?

The CDC is THE hot spot for fueling the Matronly fears.

They actually answered! Suggestions for psychiatric care aside, there were reassurances that Official Government Word is on a sleeping bat, far far away from humanity in the household, poses no vaccine-warranting danger.

But there's still that issue of future bats, sleeping in bedrooms. This is a pesky problem because there's that whole issue of finding the sleeping bat in the first place. It occurred to the Matron -- as she rationally thought the entire logistical endeavor through--that one would have to actively seek sleeping bats, keep an eye out. Unless that bat was going to lounge like Satan's Familiar, cozy on the bed or conveniently located on a bookshelf or floor (like, look, over here! here I am, rabid bat!) , the Matron would need to deploy some kind of tactical search and retreive team throughout her children's bedrooms -- every day.

Days like today, when she's on campus, communication with the spouse goes something like this:

"John, I didn't get a chance to search the children's bedrooms, but would you please check for sleeping bats? Oh, and pick up the prescription at the drugstore."

Email message, sent from school: "John, how's the sleeping bat search going? Did I mention that you should look in closets and under doors?"

Phone: "You know, sweetie, the CDC website says to patch holes to prevent bats from entering. There's that huge hole in our smaller closet that needs attention. In the meantime, can you duct tape the bottom of the door shut? We don't need to go in there."

The Matronly state of panicked affairs is reminiscent of Y2K, when a very strange thing happened to her.



She was convinced that there was at least potential for complete global collapse. Anarchy. Food shortages, gas crises, riot in the street. The internet can be a dangerous thing in unstable hands, and the Matron's? Her hands were shaking (literally -- and that's a clue)!

In the six months leading up to January 1 2000, the Matron was a shaking, quaking, weight-losing mess. She spent as much time as possible online, hanging out on survivalist web sites and reading all about the mayhem promised ahead.

Her neighbors did not help. There was much discussion of 'living off the grid.' How to make your own heat, fuel and electricity. Now, the Matron very much liked 'the grid' and had no intention of living off it it: she just didn't want that municipal network of heat and electricity to go away or be threatened!

How about that family slaughtering rabbits for food? Right down the block. All those adorable bunnies' heads hacked off and the rest popped in the freezer. That family butchered and froze bunnies for the entire year of 1999. The backyard was a row after row of cages.

The Matron would stand on street corners with these people, plotting.

The entire situation peaked one fall night when the Matron came downstairs and laid out their survival plan to her husband. They would pack the dogs, children and vital ingredients and flee to Leech Lake Indian Reservation where their dearest friends lived.

Indians know how to live off the grid, she reasoned. We can stay with them. We might not need to, but there's Plan B. Go Native.

Now, the Matron doesn't know how John knew to do this, but he did. He held her hands and said this:  "Let me take care of the survival plan. Stop the research. Don't think about it. I'll do everything - - assess the risk, make the plan, stockpile food and water. Please just hand this problem over to me. Trust me to take care of you."

And she did! Literally, just like that. She turned it over, relieved.

Occasionally, she'd check in: "Are we storing fuel in the garage? Do you think canned food would be a good idea?"

John: "I'm all over it! No worries!"

Still, one day, the Matron took her quaking shaking weight-losing, hair-falling out self to the doctor because she just didn't feel quite right, impending apocalypse aside --hadn't, ever since Scarlett was about six months old. Turns out?

The Matron had Graves Disease. Hyperthyroidism. Which can result in? Weight loss. Hair loss. Anxiety. Outright paranoia. FEAR.

Which helped explain her penchant for survivalist web sites. Still, post-diagnosis (and the drama of getting that thyroid in line will be another story), the Matron found herself standing in front of 200 count packs of Q-Tips, dirt cheap on sale.

Naturally, she put 20 packages in her cart. She just had to stock up on something!

On December 31st, 1999, John remembered to fill up the car with gas. He bought nary a bottle of water nor can of corn. And the Matron hasn't purchased a Q-Tip in approximately 8 years.

Maybe she'll check her thyroid levels in between forages for rabid bats.


~*~**~*~*~**~

Now?

1995 -- Big movie! Outbreak.
2011 - Big movie! Contagion.
2015 -- Your iPhone! Ebola.

Let the new Age of Anxiety Begin.

Ear Wax or Bigger Problems? So Wondereth the Matron.

Merrick:   "Can we buy some Create Juice?"

Matron:  "Create Juice?  What do you mean?  There is no such thing."

Merrick:  "Yes there is and my Math teacher said she's out of it. Hers ran out.   She seemed super crabby about that so I thought it would cheer her up if I brought some on Monday."

Here is where the Matron must sit down and put her head on the table and bang it ever so slightly, just a few times.

Bang.  Bang.  Bang.

At least he's helpful.   The rest demands emergency attention.

How Global Pandemic Plays Out In Her House

Merrick: "If Ebola comes to St. Paul, would I stay home from school?"

Matron:   "Absolutely -- but why do you ask?"     And in that "absolutely" please read her total and complete, forever irrational panic.  This is a woman who bought 5000 Q-Tips before Y2K.

Merrick: "No school and stuff. We could be on TV. I'm thinking maybe Ebola isn't all that bad."

Her scholar and reality tv star, scheming.   Forget global demise and despair.   No school and cameras.

Like

Cutting Him Loose

Here is the Matron's life, a Friday morning before school.  Over oatmeal (Matron) and Cocoa Krispies (Merrick).

Merrick: "Did you and Dad sign a prenup?"

Matron: "What!? Why in the world are you asking?"

Merrick: "Because if something goes wrong with that colon-thing today, who gets me and Scarlett?"

Matron: "I think you're talking about a will -- and I'm not going to die during a colonoscopy. And Dad's not dying today, either. A prenuptial agreement is when you agree who gets what in a divorce, before you even get married. "

Merrick: "Okay then. How about the prenup thing? How did you split up kids?"

Matron: "We don't have one We didn't split up children."

Merrick: "Then who goes where when you get divorced?"

Matron: "We're not getting divorced."

Merrick: "What about if you both die?"

Matron: "Honey, why these questions today?"

Merrick: "I was thinking there are LOTS of ways I could be cut loose here and I want to know my options."

Day in the life.

Nothing Says "Hey I'm 50" Like . . .

A certain medical procedure, which the Matron will undergo tomorrow at 10:00 am.    Please let her never see another cup of clear broth or green JELL-O again.    But when she sees her husband, post-procedure, he better be bearing a big cup of coffee and fully loaded bagel.

Other indicators of a certain age?

Every night the Matron consumes the following elixer:  magnesium, tart cherry, melatonin (timed release).    Because she is no longer capable of sleep without assistance and that 3/4 half a bottle of wine every night just wasn't working out that well for her.

Today's New York Times Magazine features Gary Hart's tryst with Donna Rice and all that fell out afterward and it seems like just yesterday when that all happened.   Plus she even knew who Gary Hart was.

Although the Matron has required eye correction since she was a very Wee Miss, she is now swapping out her contacts for glasses at night.   Because her eyes are just, well, tired, by about 6 pm.  Which is when 'night' begins for her now.

This summer, she attended weddings of two young women she'd known since they were Wee Misses themselves.  She has friends who are (gasp) grandmothers).   More than one friend and the grandchildren aren't necessarily tiny, either.

"Glory be" and "Heavens to mercy" are phrases that she actually uses -- with passion and commitment.

Please pour her another stiff cup of tea while she unlaces the orthopedic shoes. . . .

The Matron: Zen Master?

Many years ago when the Matron was a youngish Miss with two small children, her beloved trunlded her off to Kripalu for some yoga R & R. It was a lovely respite for Beleagured Mother. She participated in downward dog, saluted the sou, bent like a cobra. She attended various lectures on topics like "Loving Kindness To Anger Release" and "Do No Harm" and "Mindfulness Means Peace." Immediately following a particularly poignant "Do No Harm" presentation, yours truly returned to her room only to be bothered by a fly. No - -not the plague, hiccups, or other torture. Yours truly was subject to the buzzing mayhem of a simple house fly. Which meant she was soon screaming about her tiny yogic bedroom, batting newspapers and throwing books at the buzzing menace: "DIE MOTHERF#(%%@%!!!"

 Thus, her true nature was revealed.

 Scroll forward many years and that true nature. Mice.

 Every mouse in St. Paul has decided that the Matron's house will be Winter Resort or Rodent Party. They have descended and they poop. Everywhere. If the fly was a newspaper and book? Here is the Matron's true nature, her mouse demeanor.


  The Battle of Stirling - Braveheart (5/9) Movie CLIP (1995) HD

The Matron's Fifteen Minutes

Yes indeed --yours truly is hoisting her hose and making the most out of her 15 minutes of semi-fame. The Today Show website! The Matron is asking you to "like," comment, or share the Today Story -- and make sure that everyone who loves his or her mother buys the darn book! Find out how this amazing teen made his mom's dream come true

This One Speaks for Itself

But first, hand her a tissue. Rosenblum: Son's gift to writer mom is one for the books

Magic: Just Starting!

Last week, the Matron read from her novel, At the End of Magic.    She picked up her son from COLLEGE (where he now lives) and the two arrived, early.    The store was alarmingly empty.  

Bookstore worker:   "You're competing with the state fair and the start of school.  Nobody showed up for last night's event."

Wherein He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN) but whom everyone knows, looked mildly alarmed.  His mother said 'not to worry' but she did.   She took her worried self to the Ladies Room, that time-tested respite from whatever else is happening outside of its doors.

A few minutes later?

People were walking in. . . and in . . . and in . . and more people started coming.   The bookstore workers had to get extra chairs.

Bookstore Worker:  "Folks, we can put a few people over here."

HWCBN was no longer alarmed but a wee bit proud of the room his mother packed.    Then that mother got to stand up in front of the crowd and talk about her work.  She read from the book.  She answered questions.

Really, truly great questions -- from people who actually read the damn book and were genuinely curious.    The Matron was happy -- so happy!-- to thoughtfully answer back, each question bringing her to some new self awareness or artistic realization.

Synergy ensued.   Goodwill and lively conversation.

The book store worker kept frantically signaling "time" on his pretend watch until the Matron snapped shut her book and promised to sign some of theirs.

Fifteen minutes later, as she was chatting and signing, she happened to look up and behind her.   There was a LINE.

Bookstore Worker:   "You're competing with the state fair and start of school, Mary -- and we ran out of chairs and books.   Impressive.  Good show, too."

And the son who made it all happen jhad shifted right to flat-out, happy, pride in his mama's show:  "Mom!  I didn't know you had that in you!"

"That" being genuine delight in discourse.  She is light on her conversational feet and enjoys every minute of it.    Not a big surprise to the blogging world, where the Matron gets to strut her stuff routinely--and watch others strut theirs too.

Thank you, Stryker.   It's going to be a magical ride.  Already is.

As the World Turns

Yesterday, the Matron moved her eldest into his dorm room.   Tears were shed and not just by her.   That young man may have experienced a moment of Sniffle himself.

At the University of Minnesota (ahem, BIG scholarship), he is close to home, but oh-so-far-away.   Yesterday was clearly a move out.   Away.  Into the new chapter. 

And this one, the girl?

Is now a young woman.   Happy birthday, Scarlett!!  The Matron's only daughter turned 16 today!   The Matron and her husband are parents of few rules and one of them is:  no dating until you're 16.  That's right.  Not a  peck, not a walk in the park, not a boyfriend-girlfriend.   Merrick asked Scarlett if she "plans to go crazy."  

But her mother isn't worried about that.   This child has been focused, disciplined and determined since birth. She continues to amaze and blaze onstage (The Cherry Orchard, coming up next) but has also shown up as her older brother's intellectual equal.   He was fourth in his graduating class.  She is rounding that corner at #7.   But 16!

Suddenly, Merrick isn't quite so much the baby anymore.   Not after pulling on that uniform and stepping into Middle School this morning.  He went in her little guy and emerged a middle-schooler.

She is certain that he will try to break that 'date at 16 rule.'    

The Matron feels like the real matronly deal -- the old lady sitting with her cronies in the church basement, watching the young people sing and dance after the wedding -- full of nostalgia, full of hope for the spectacular future in the youth before her, humbled by her own role in the universe. Her life! Tiny! Huge! Tiny by scale but enormous in terms of heart. The scope of history gives us just a firefly blip in its timeline, but each day shaped by love is as rich and dense as eternity.  

She is grateful for each and every one of those days she's given. 

Future Chair of the Federal Reserve Bank?

The Matron, awash with maternal anticipation for Middle School, took Merrick to orientation for his academically rigorous new school. Incoming sixth-graders were given a piece of paper with five questions and ushered into the gym, where a teacher explained precisely what they were to do with that piece of paper over the next two hours. Students would be going to small classroom meetings, where they would hear school themes and messages that should be recorded onto that paper to answer the five questions. This went on, clearly and without deviation, for 15 minutes. Then the group disbanded for said small classroom meetings.

Merrick (waving paper): "Mom?!! What do I do with this?"

Matron: "We just spent the past half hour talking about this!"

Merrick: "We did?"

Matron: "You go room to room with your group, and the teachers will give you ideas about how to answer the questions on the paper. Does that make sense?"

Merrick: "Is this school now or something before that happens? And what did you say again about that paper?"

When she left him with group and home room teacher, all she  could do was shove him into the fold, look the teacher square in the eye and say: (with meaiing):  "Good luck."

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