She Who Wants to be Named

Not that the Matron rereads her own writing for hours on end, lamenting her lack of professional success in this regard and heralding her skills. . . okay, stop.

But she came across an old blog post that spoke to recent events.

Ever since Stryker had his appendix out -- and he is slow, slow, slow to mend --- Scarlett has had a stomach ache. Dizziness. Fever? The mom is asked to check that out. Perhaps Scarlett broke her thumb? Did the Matron notice this slight rash on her leg? There's a bump on this elbow. Her hair has less texture. Is it normal to sneeze?

Scarlett: "Mom, my left eye lid feels sort of funny. Heavy. And I think I have some sort of swelling on my right big toe. Then there's my STOMACH! It HURTS. Plus I have a headache and sometimes my back itches. I'm in pretty bad shape."

You get the drift.

Matron: "Considering all these ailments, do you still want to audition on Saturday?"

Scarlett (instantly alive): "YES YES YES."

In the interim, the Matron takes the temperature and administers various creams.

Here's the old post. Ah, memories. And continuity.

~*~*~*~*~

Dizziness.

Perfect. Quite versatile and as impossible as 'tummy' for others to assess. This may be a more flexible weapon. Whereas the tummy ache seems to require a beginning and end point, dizziness can weave in and out of consciousness at all times--here one fleeting, disorienting moment and gone the next. Dizziness has both laser precision and an an ethereal, Victorian quality that suits, entirely.

I'm quite impressed. This may be my personal favorite.

That, and on Sunday--while dizzy, and with head and neck aches (distinct ailments)--Scarlett reported that she was experiencing diarrhea and constipation simultaneously.

Have I said how talented my kids are?

Where is her Life Anthem?

Really, the Matron believes there should be an Anthem for her life. Okay, at least a sound track! Something spiffy, dramatic, sympathetic, inspiring, uplifting, moving, odd, spooky and enduring! Surely there is a sweeping song out there just for her?

More specifically, this thought of Anthem occurred to her this morning as 158 children jailed in four coach buses, windows steaming in the Minnesota freeze, watched the Matron (she of fashionable boot and all things decorous in weather where practicality rules) RUN a city block AT FULL SPEED through six inches of snow in order to retrieve videos for the bus ride before the idling buses could take off.

Remember that Chariots of Fire song?

Yes, the Matron and her husband saw off the Hysteric today. Scarlett left for four days at Wolf Ridge Environmental Learning Center, carting more paraphernalia than Paris Hilton on a six week publicity tour. Anticipated air temperature in Finland Minnesota tonight? Fifteen degrees below zero.

If you own stock in SmartWool sock, thank the Matron for that bump up in your retirement fund.

Thanks to the H1N1 party, all of the children headed north were also required to A) take their temperatures at home and B) retake their temperatures in the gym before loading the bus just in case things changed since the home deal.

What song to accompany 158 fourth through sixth grades in four weaving lines waiting to get their temperature taken?

"Did you pass?"

"I'm 97.9, how about you?"

There was honest to God TENSION for those waiting in line as nobody (except Scarlett and a couple of visibly terrified fourth graders) wanted to be sent home because of fever! And although Scarlett did her best to work up a sweat, she passed with flying colors, shoved her supplies for a small Malaysian village under the bus and hopped on in!

With her two best friends. She'll be fine.

Meanwhile, Good Volunteers John and the Matron hauled the 1400 snack servings they had purchased (oranges, apples, graham crackers, vanilla wafers, pretzels and goldfish for those interested in the menu) under the bus.

Just when everything looked good to go - -mind you, these packing and temperature-taking processes consumed about an hour and all outdoor activity is happening at 10 degrees with falling snow -- the teachers panicked!!

Four plus hours on the bus without a movie! No Screen! Everyone had forgotten movies for the loooooooooonnnnnngggggg ride up.

Why is it in these emergencies with 15 capable adults milling about that everyone look at the Matron?

"What do we do?"

She knew! She knew!

Quick as a flash she had the husband phone a parent who lived just one snowy block away. This was another mama with a child on the bus, a woman fast on her feet and well, a woman. This woman knew just what to do and what time frame to do it in: now. Without questions.

If it was a man: "Uh, what kind of movie? Has everyone seen Harry Potter or should I put that in too? Remind me, what exactly is going on that you need the movies for?"

So while the mama assembled movies in a flash the Matron ran to retrieve them, with the buses idling and everyone waiting waiting waiting for the movies so the wheels could roll. She wondered what her daughter thinks of her sometimes, especially in moments when you are running in high heeled pretty boots in six inches of snow and ten degrees, wearing a faux fur coat and a decorative hat, waving a bag of movies like a baton.

Definitely Gonna Fly Now.

Happy Birthday, Scarlett!

This was your first time on stage. Check out that face, moments before curtain. Uh, can we say the opposite of stage fright? Joy!

The Matron thinks the above actually came from your eighth birthday! (Isn't she adorable?!) Your brothers should thank their good lives for your existence. Why? When your Mama was a Youngish Miss and newly pg with your big brother, she decided to find out the baby's gender.

You know what THAT answer was! Look at that boy glare at his Mama! The big red forehead tattoo would be his suction cup marque. The child decide to deform himself before the first day of school. But see how sweetly the daughter is smiling on her first day of first grade!

Way back, when the ultrasound technician innocently told her that her firstborn was to be a boy, Youngish Miss tried hard for repose. She burst into tears. Because she wanted, this!


Not even necessarily Annie --


Or Ramona or Helen or any of the roles or an actor. Sure, Scarlett, the Matron can thank you for some stupendous-can't-beat-em cocktail party lines: "My 11-year old has agents in L.A. and Minneapolis." But she knows that's pretty much smoke on the water.

She's happy you know that, too.

No, your Mama simply wanted a daughter--a girl who would be kind to animals and brothers (sorta related). Your Mama harbored dreams of a reader, a girl with books permanently stashed in the leather pouch she carries everywhere. She wanted to meet a fierce spirit--a girl more fearless and confident than she was when young. Your Mama dreamed of the kind of girl who would, gracefully, set aside her plans for her 11th birthday because another family needed a great big helping hand-- a real emergency -- and suddenly there was a surprise overnight and two tiny tots in the house on the actual bona fide anniversary of your BIRTH and instead of complaining? This daughter would play stuffed animals, tag, and help - - all day.

That's exactly the daughter she got.

Actual Conversation:

Matron: "Scarlett, who would you like to invite to your birthday party?"

Scarlett: "Instead of a party, can we bring toys to sick children in a hospital and then go volunteer at a homeless shelter. Instead of presents, can we buy toys for the sick children and clothes for the kids in homeless shelters?"

Monday, in honor of your birthday -- and the dizzying potential your big beautiful life holds-- your family and the families of four of your friends will be packing food, here, instead of the regular partying.

But your Mama promises there will be cake and candles involved, as well.

Happy Birthday, Scarlett! It's quite a ride.

In Which the Matronly Ecosystem is HIGHLY Disturbed and Distressed!!

You see, the Matronly ecosystem is highly fragile.  This is code for:  humans, dogs, cats, frogs, fish, birds, gerbils, hamsters, hermit crabs and even caged small snakes can cohabitate with the  Matron.

Not long ago, however, as she was rambling through the half-finished, much lived-in basement, a shot of fur brushed past her!!  She told herself this was a GIANT mouse, even though said fur blur seemed more like a kitten than egg.  Still. Denial is a powerful tool that's served her well so far, and this was no exception.

Matron to John:  "We have mice.  I mean, really big Superman mice.  I just saw one in the basement and it's like, a rat-size."

John (knowing her well):  "Uh-oh.  That's probably a rat, then, not a mouse.  How big?"

Matron:  "It looked like a four month old kitten.  Only disgusting.  But it wasn't a rat."

John:  "Ummmmm."

Just when the Matron's very fine repression-denial-evasion skills had convinced her that this was a mouse in the house, she saw the creature scuttling across the floorboard again.  Actually, mice scuttle.  This thing lurched.  And it was undeniably as big as a kitten!

Two days later.

John:  "Mary, sit down.   It's about the basement."

Matron:  "OH MY GOD WE HAVE RATS!  I REALLY DO BELONG IN A TRAILER!"

John:  "No, it's a mole.   There's a mole living in the basement."

Little pause.

John:  "Maybe two.  And their offspring."

No! Moles are not on the list of creatures compatible with the Matron's Ecosystem!!!  Especially not by the laundry, the children's playroom, the best shower in the house!!!  

So the Matron must now wear boots and carry a bucket when she enters the very necessary basement.  You see, the plan is that the boots will bear the brunt of venomous Fang while she tosses the bucket over the vermin, locking it in until John - being male and all -- could let it outdoors.   Because she's a girl and can't do this.

She has trouble sleeping at night, imagining chaos in the netherlands.  Whole tribes, colonies, populating.  Can moles strategize and revolt?  How complex is their sentience?   The intrusion is disconserting. 

Think she's hysterical?  Scarlett won't leave her bedroom.

Prisoner of War

Although the Matron was recently reassured that her daughter was having a damn fine time at Camp, Scarlett is claiming otherwise. As a supplement to her primate-like photography skills, here is text.

Sunday (most likely penned about ten minutes post-Matronly departure)

Hi Mommy & Daddy & MeatloafHead ( family pet name for Merrick and ground zero for future therapy)

Actually it is not really as fun as you said.

Today we found out that Camp Olson is doing a Olympic contest between cabins, we had to make up a team name. Ours is: "The Devilettes," our cheer is: "We have horns, we are red, go-o-o Devilettes!" (she's sure this goes over well in a YMC as in Christian A Camp)

But, as I said before, it's not that fun, and I'm almost ready looking forward to coming home.

Will you send a picture of Scruffy? (if she had her way S.F. himself would be in a box headed
in any direction)

I practically wanna come home. (seems to be the heart of the narrative)

Scarlett



Monday

Mom & Dad,

We aren't doing very well on the Camp Olson Olympics. I think we're almost last.

Tomorrow (Tuesday) we are leaving just after lunch to go sleep in a tent somewhere (gasp! the Matron just HATES that sort of thing herself! SO sorry sweet diva! but she guesses children should develop their own healthy disdain for Outdoors rather than live through their mother's, so have at it) and we leaving to hike and kayak back, like between 8 & 9 a.m.

I wanna come home. . . . bad
(Decisive return to main narrative thrust at ending)

- Scarlett

At least the Matron knows, through the Torture Chronicles, that her daughter is alive and kicking. Indeed, after mentioning her daughter's general histrionic constitution to the Camp Director, he appears to be personally following her around with a camera. The Camp web site has dozens of pictures of her frolicking, smiling, manipulative malleable thespian who is clearly currently playing dual roles. Well.

Stryker? Not a word. And, although there are about two million pictures on the web site (she knows - she's scoured every group shot), not a single photograph of her son. But, she knows she'd get a phone call if missing or dead -- probably even a refund -- so she's not worried.

More worried about what future Torture Chronicles may bring, especially post-tent experience. Her little apple, bouncing close to the maternal tree!

Near Miss

Remember Scarlett of the polymorphous tummy, the organ that Freud built?

Well, she suddenly sprouted eczema: angry, itchy, bloody. I play the allopathic-naturopathic Russian Roulette and this time landed the homeopath, who strongly suspected a wheat allergy.

See this? Bread is Scarlett's Secret Boyfriend Number 1 through Infinity.

For the past few weeks, she goes maybe ten minutes without some kind of wheat product and considers that mission accomplished. But then the eczema rendered her knuckles red weepy welts at the same time the tummy aches became unbearable.

Scarlett: "I'm not going to eat wheat. Ever. Stop me if I want some."

Me (truthfully): "If you beg and cry for food, I'll give you some. I can't help it."

Scarlett: "I won't beg and cry. I really really want to try to make this go away."

Me: "If you beg and cry for food, I'll give you some. I'm your mother."

The mother is also not totally convinced of the wheat-eczema-tummy connection, given the daughter's histrionic history. If you ever feel worried about your child's mental health, just click the label Scarlett and know she is aptly named.

Ever meet a three-year-old whose decision to stop pooping had real follow through? For like a month. And then did it all over again?

Now you have.

And that drama finally ended when a very wise parenting teacher advised me to ask Scarlett who was in charge of her poop, mom or Scarlett. Well. We had that all mixed up.

So . . . Scarlett went two complete days without wheat. No tummy aches! The eczema faded pale pink. Once again, homeopathy triumphed over reason (complicated, dubious, but enduring relationship with homeopathy exists here).

Then we made the mistake of going to a brothel called Bread and Chocolate for hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls.

Should an alcoholic own a liquor store? Just popped into my mind.

Scarlett sulked and pouted over her hot cocoa. The whipped cream was unsightly and the chocolate sprinkles stunk. She scowled. When Stryker bit into his cinnamon roll--steamy, soft and dripping with icing--her moan was audible.

But no crying or begging! I had thrown down that flag and was waiting its arrival.

Damn, that girl is good. She took a more passive, darker path of small puppy whimpers, inability to make eye contact and refusal of cocoa, cream and milk.

Finally, me: "Do you really want a cinnamon roll? Even if it means a tummy ache and eczema?"

Scarlett: "YES! I DON'T CARE."

Stryker (licking icing off his plate with utter lack of irony): "Scarlett, you have no self-control."

Me: "Honey, I'll be so disappointed. You've done so well!" (Freud snickers)

A short time passes while the storm clouds quicken and swell.

Finally, me: "Scarlett?"

Daughter: "I can't have a cinnamon roll because you'll be disappointed. Maybe even angry at me."

CLANG CLANG CLANG GO THE THERAPY BELLS.

Me: "I will have no emotion whatsoever connected with what you eat. Nothing. You are 100% in charge of what goes in and out of your body and that is not related to me. I bet you can make your own good decisions by listening to your body."

Cinnamon rolls were had by all. Make mine a double.