For This She's Paying X Thousand Dollars?

Please excuse the Matron's absence. She's been on the phone.

Now, when HWCBN absconded to Northwestern Debate Institute -- for a month -- she experienced this dearth of communication, despite the fact that debate participants had unlimited access to their cell phones.

Here is the Matron, texting her beloved offspring: "hi honeyu how is ur day goong?"

Two days of silence later, she receives this: "When are you going to learn how to use the key pad on your cell phone? I'm fine. Bye."

She tries again, more carefully: "Eating okay? Do you guys go out a lot? Things here are good. Merrick got a hamster and no dog has eaten it yet. We named it Omar."

Four days later: "Send a picture of Omar. Thanks!"

Now, the Matron will admit that she grew to enjoy this pattern. Sure, she missed her guy. If you stumbled across her doing dishes, running errands, working on a syllabus or any other mundane task, the thought of HWCBN would pour through her, eliciting a warm, nostalgic sentiment. She missed him. But this was not a searing, all consuming pain but more like a wistful --even pleasant -- ache laced with the certainty and contentment that he would soon return.

She rather enjoyed having just two children to drive and administer.

Then Scarlett went to camp.

This is a three week theater fest with NO CELL PHONES for the first week. Campers receive their beloved lines to the outside world on the first Sunday at 8 pm Eastern time.

Here in the Midwest, the phone rang at precisely 7:02.

Scarlett: "Mom!! Where's my package of food? The food is horrible! I'm in a really good play and I play a whole bunch of roles and I'm the youngest one here and one of my cabin mates might be on Annie on Broadway because the directors are coming here tomorrow and she's Annie here and she's really good and some of these kids are amazing singers and what is Merrick doing RIGHT NOW? How's Boc? Did you take the dogs to the dog park today? What are you doing? We had roast beef for dinner but remember I'm a vegetarian and we have a volleyball tournament coming up. What's a WASP? We're going to dress like WASPs because there's a contest and that relates to who we are in my play and . . . "

Her daughter! The Matron could not get enough! This was what camp communication was supposed to be like, the breathless call, the excitement, the flood of news! After a week of silence she relished the conversation. Was thrilled she could be of actual assistance from a distance: "A WASP is an acronym for White Anglo-Saxon Protestants and you can think of it as privileged uptight white people who are conservative in their social values and probably political values too."

Scarlett: "Like cousin Janet?"

Matron: "Exactly."

Scarlett: "I have to go! But we have break times at 10:30 am, 4:00, and 9:00 and I'll be sure to call then. Write me everyday. I'll call!"

And she is. Every day, at every opportunity.

Now, do not misunderstand the Matron. She delights in her daughter. She thinks Scarlett one of the most amazing, talented and gracious creatures currently occupying the planet.

But. Doesn't sending your child to a three week (expensive) residential camp somehow imply an ABSENCE of said child -- who is supposed to be having an amazing experience in independence, autonomy, friendship and community? Instead of this:

Scarlett: "Oh, it's raining today." Silence.

Matron: "Raining? Really? Oh, that's too bad." Silence.

Over the past two weeks, the Matron has spent more time in dialogue with this child than when she was just ten feet away. It is just 9:30 on Monday morning as she types this, and there has already been one communique. At home? She's said two words to Merrick who is watching TV and HWCBN is still in bed. Silence.

She's even tried not answering the telephone if she's genuinely busy (as in that full time job which requires actual brain space and time).

Answering Machine Clicks On: "Family? This is Scarlett! Where are you? I'm going to lunch in a few minutes but now I'll be TOTALLY traumatized by the fact that I can't reach anyone in my family. It will be hard to eat with all that anxiety. Bye."

And guess who made SURE her daughter packed that cell phone charger? Sigh . . .

Happy Birthday, Scarlett!

Scarlett, you are growing up. Today, you turn 12. Your mother is astounded that a decade and two years have transpired since you entered the world.

This year, you endured some hardships. All you want to do is be on a stage somewhere, with people clapping. But your fall and winter seasons were unexpectedly cancelled --and suddenly, on the cusp of Junior High with all those changes -- your identity and vocation were in the balance.

Retreat to bed? Cry or worry? Instead, you asked your mother to get you auditions, quick. Now that you're the lead in this show and immediately afterward have a nice role in a very cool adult theater, you seem much happier.

Still, your mother knows you're worried about what's next -- because there must be something.

There's a big movie audition ahead but you toss that off.

Scarlett: "If I get in, great. If I don't, I'll have fun at school. Either one is good."

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.


Monday, in honor of your birthday -- and the dizzying potential your big beautiful life holds-- four of your best friends from elementary school will be participating in a "Red Carpet Hollywood Party" tomorrow night, and probably stay awake until the wee hours. You have asked that in lieu of presents, your friends donate any money they might have spent to a homeless shelter.

Twelve is the cusp, my dear. You are not yet a teenager nor are you a small child. The world is suddenly both open and mysterious. Your mother is amazed by your generosity of spirit and strong friendships. Never once have you been anything other than kind and patient --and continually fighting for the underdog, wherever you may find him/her. If there is a mean girl culture, you are not only not part of it, you're an active opponent.

Scarlett: "Mom, everyone is mean to Shaquita at school. Is there a way we can help make her feel more a part of the classroom community? Could we invite her over with some other friends to help everyone get along?" (actual words).

You're a person who organized a play with 30 child actors at age seven --and demanded that no parent watch a rehearsal! A person who is considered by local adult actors a "colleague" and not a child actor. Even better, you know when to play with your little brother and when a dog needs a little extra love. Plus, there's that extra Uterine Tracking Device (UTD) in the house.

Stryker: "Where's my iPod?"

Merrick: "Where's my football?"

John: "Who took my wallet and cell phone?"

Scarlett: "Living room coffee table, backyard in the left corner by the roses, on your dresser."

Happy Birthday, Scarlett! It's quite a ride. Your mother's greatest gift is that she gets to tuck you in every night and listen to your dreams.

Baby Games

Sniffle!

Snort!

The cycle of life both began again and came to a grinding halt at 10:17 this morning when the Matron's little brother and his beautiful (true) wife welcomed their third -- and currently unnamed -- son into the world!

The Matron recommended to her brother that he allow his older sons -- six and nine-- to make that final name decision from a short acceptable list, just as she did. With mixed results as Merrick is now unfortunately named after a Yu-Gi-Oh character.

And what's so final about a new baby? This is the end of the reproductive road for the Matron's siblings. All those grandchildren and cousins? All here: five boys and Scarlett. Who never fails to address this issue at family gatherings.

Scarlett: "It is not FAIR. Where is my sister?! Where is my cousin?!"

To imagine the volume and intensity of this lament, the Matron opens a wee window into this morning's before school scrimmage. Scarlett, who has been on antibiotics for strep throat since Thursday announced today that the infection must have spread to her stomach and right hip because both were causing her UNBEARABLE pain.

She limped around the house, dragging the game leg behind her and moaning about the stomach (and throat). The Matron became aware of this emergency while in the basement. Scarlett was on the second floor. She has projection power second to no one.

Gee, you would think those antibiotics would have kicked in by now.

Matron: "Scarlett, you can use a hair dryer to dry your hair before school."

Scarlett: "No I can't. My hair doesn't dry normally. Dryers don't work on it."

Some days, the Matron is very very glad that there is just one other set of ovaries in this particular roost because she thinks one hysterical operatic hypochondriac with hair unable to dry normally is about all she can handle.

New Symptom!

To fully appreciate this, do explore The Tummy Ache, an entity that has not so much come and gone, but shaped Scarlett's entire existence and indeed, much of the family terrain.

Last night -- at bedtime, as usual--Terrible Headache joined Tummy Ache so neither would be lonely.

Scarlett, as her hand wildly tracks pain's progress: "Right here in my tummy. . .now, here! Over there! Oh! Worse in the middle!"

The Matron would have none of it. Fed up, all that. So as she was walking out, Scarlett reached into the recesses of her creative spirit and wailed: "Mama! It's actually The Cold Sweat! I have The Cold Sweat and that's worse than the others!"

Turns out, The Cold Sweat initiates copious weeping, as well.

Much tempted toward wry comment on the fact that The Cold Sweat was also invisible and intangible, the Matron held her tongue. Because earlier, she flat out said that--in her maternal opinion -- Scarlett wasn't actually sick (she stayed home from school because of The Tummy Ache), a statement that the Matron was forced to retract in a million different ways and manners in order for normal life to resume.

Well, as normal as it gets around here.

Beware. It's The Cold Sweat season. Be careful out there.

The Torture Chronicles, Vol. 3

To fully appreciate the extend of this child's suffering, understand that Scarlett has a wheat allergy. Or so assumes the Matron because when the doctor suggested a blood test to determine said system malfunction, Scarlett nearly threw herself out the window and the test was never done. Instead, the doctor suggested Scarlett abstain from wheat for a week.

Tummy aches? Gone!

But everyone knows how prisoners of war starve and suffer. . .

Wednesday

Mom, Dad & Merrick,

Last night we went camping, and we had the BEST BREAD EVER! We have to figure out how to make it! (bake bread! Ack, ack, ack went the Matron, who opens boxes for anything more
complex than a cookie)

I will you more about camp when I get home (tomorrow!) but this morning, me, Lia Allie, and (the counselor) Ellen missed like half the breakfast.

So far almost every meal has been wheat except for the potatoes and chicken.

Sunday and Monday nights I cried myself to sleep. I am looking forward to Saturday.

Love,

Scarlett


Here she, suffering.




Looking particularly miserable here, hmmmm?


And: he's alive!

Hysteria! It's in the Bloodline, Baby

Yesterday, the Matron announced her closet cleaning intentions. Now, that impulse extended to Scarlett's room, as well. This would be the conversation leading up to the week-long residential summer camp where she is currently residing.

Matron: "Just so you know, when you go to camp, I'm cleaning your room."

Scarlett: "I'm not going to camp."

Matron: "Yes, you are. In the meantime, go through the closet and all your drawers and pull out clothes that are too big, too small, somebody else's or don't fit your current sense of style."

Scarlett: "Nothing fits that description."

Matron: "Give it a shot anyway."

Ten minutes and steady series of sighs and groans later, Scarlett emerged from the black hole with one pair of pants and a t-shirt. "Here."

Matron: "That's it? You know I'm cleaning you're room while you're at camp. Be prepared. I'm going through drawers. Deep-tissue level, okay? We could do it now, together?"

Scarlett: "No. And I'm not going to camp."

Well, she did, kicking and screaming.

But friends! Yesterday, after the Matron wrote her lovely blog post and purged her own well-ordered room, she decided to tackle Scarlett's. She entered at 11:00 a.m. Within ten minutes, it was the Matron who was kicking and screaming. Literally.

She pulled a pile, four feet high, from that child's closet.

There was even odor. The Matron had to go out in the hallway and let the rage wash away. Yogic breathing.

Friends, that room was so disgusting and so full of junk, in every corner! The Matron realized how little she had entered, as of late. Here's a short list of surprise finds:

• one calcified bagel
• one rotten banana, two apple cores
  
• nine glasses
• seven forks
  
• every piece of paper Scarlett has touched in the past two years
• twelve American Girl magazines
• the three library books currently incurring fines
• two feather boas, seven pirate eye patches, 22 copies of Peter Pan script
• one piece of bone-dry poop, supplied by Satan's Familiar

The Matron nearly burst a gasket! Photos don't do justice, as the Matron was too busy tossing, organizing and scrubbing to document the muck in every drawer and on every surface.



There was even food inside of drawers! Scarlett sheds junk like skin cells and now the Matron knows where it all lands.


Whereas Scarlett could identify one pair of pants and a t-shirt with toss-away potential, her mother pulled out THREE bags!

The Matron emerged from her journey at 6 pm -- seven hours later. She hasn't seen that blanket in 2.7 years.


In the meantime, while the Matron cursed and scrubbed (really, she was in a tizzy - -she must get this child to clean at least a little!), she simultaneously worried about her daughter, whose farewell to her mother, was this:

"I'm definitely going to die here, so you should get a good look at me while you can."

Indeed, as Scarlett composed her Last Will and Testament the night before deaprture, the Matron sent an email message with this subject line, to the camp director: Hysteria, Heading Your Way.

And -- after seven hours of slaving in that adorable, complicated little slob's room -- she got this email message from the director:

"Dear Mary: We have an entirely different child at camp! We have the first day under our belts and Scarlett has certainly settled in! Her counselors said she led the songs in the cabin last night and fell asleep, just fine. I've seen her several times today and she's talking excitedly with her counselors, interacting with new friends and often, emerging as a leader. There's discussion of staging a play!"

He sent photos, just to prove what an effective little scam artist her child is. Look how alone and lonely Scarlett appears.




Now, that looks like a good idea, Scarlett. The Matron nearly wishes she had one to turn on herself after finding two pairs of her own shoes, one bracelet and a missing hair brush in your room.


When Scarlett comes home and sees this, the psychological collapse will be immediate and complete.

Her 19th Century Hysteric

Ah, summer camp --that pubescent, fetid pool where middle-class memories are made! Children and horses! There is campfire singing and mess hall eating. A parallel universe unfolds for a week, a world with its own rules, social hierarchies, politics and policies. A world free from parents, television and the dreaded Household Chore.

Fun! Arc the bow, pull the trigger and explore all things Outdoor, generally speaking.

Who wouldn't want to go?

Now, regular readers of this blog know exactly who: Scarlett.

But, hot damn if the Matron's generous sister (with no children of her own to suck away each last cent and spare brain cell) is paying for Stryker and Scarlett to attend YMCA Camp Olson, together. The Matron didn't even consider saying no! She dubbed the offer a no-brainer.

Here is the Matron completing her lengthy, thoughtfully constructed speech (she reread some Freud, Rank and Jung in the process) in which she introduces Scarlett to the concept of Camp. Mind you, she is at the end.

Matron: "And just in case the camp store, the horses, archery, jewelry making, swimming, new friends, clothes-we're-going-to-buy-for-you, boating, fishing and even acting isn't enough to make camp perfect -- like the most fun you've had in your entire life!---just in case you need more, not only will your big brother be going, but your best friend! Yes! Caitlin is going to camp with you! How's that! Your Mama made sure that your brother, his friend Josh who will watch over you like a hawk AND Caitlin will all accompany you to camp. Scarlett, you will have an entourage. Secret Service, at your finger tips! Okay?"

Scarlett (tears like a fire hydrant): "OH MY GOD WHO STOLE MY PARENTS!! MY PARENTS WOULD NEVER SEND ME AWAY LIKE THAT. WHO ARE YOU, EVIL WOMAN AND WHERE IS MY MAMA! I WANT MY REAL MOTHER!!!"

With that, she fell screaming to the floor, where she did a damn fine imitation of Regan in The Exorcist.

Yes, that went about as well as expected.

The Matron's only daughter is not a timid person. Indeed, when in a show at the Guthrie, her most pressing question was this: "How many people will watch me every night?"

Matron: "I think 800."

Scarlett: "That's all? Phooey."

But cast this child toward Nature, with its threats of dirt and discomfort . . . well, she becomes her mother's daughter. This is a child who understands bees as an individual insult from the heavens. Watch the sunset? Excuse me, is that her own face on the horizon? If not, never mind. Then there's weather. Scarlett cannot tolerate weather of any sort. Temperate summer day? She's dying, inside by the air conditioner, gulping and gasping. Rain? Might as well be a tornado. The thought of prancing about outside in weather, is enough to do her in.

The nail on the coffin? She is thrust into all this discomfort without her mother.

"MOM!? WHERE ARE YOU? I NEED YOU!"

That subtle mantra started about ten days ago. Since then, every time the Matron sits down at her computer, her little barnacle wraps herself into the lap and says: "Watcha reading?"

Scarlett has occupied the parental bed for several days. Then there's the spectacular litany of ailments.

"Mama? My side hurts, here, right below a rib. That's a rib, right? It's a jabbing pain that happens only when I eat fruit. Should I see a doctor?"

"Mom? See this toe? Don't you think it's moving oddly? I can barely lift it. See how it wobbles? It doesn't really hurt, but I think it's not looking normal."

"Mom! Do I have a fever?"

"Mama. Do you see this strange dot on my wrist? Maybe I'm finally getting chicken pox. I think it's the chicken pox."

"Omigod, Mom! I have the worst headache! My whole head is practically exploding. Do we have ice packs?"

"Mama! Come into the bathroom, quick. I'm constipated and have diarrhea all at the same time!"

Camp. The Matron and her family pull out of home base about 8:30 am tomorrow. It's 10:09 pm. And Scarlett?

She is in her bedroom, putting the final touches on her Last Will and Testament.

Friends, the Matron wishes she were making this stuff up. Not tonight, unfortunately . . . pop! goes the wine cork.

Example of Why Matron is Not Allowed to be Typical Stage Mother Even is She so Wanted

Matron: "Scarlett, your hair looks really nice pulled back like that."

Scarlett: "One hundred and four."

Matron: "One hundred and four what?"

Scarlett: "One hundred and four times you've said something about me, to me."

Matron: "Is that bad?"

Scarlett: "Let's just say we'd rather not get to one hundred and five, shall we?"

Incurable Clutter Brain Suck and That Daughter

The Matron has written about this affliction, here.

In short, she suffers from Incurable Clutter Brain Suck. She cannot tolerate clutter

If in a pile of snow pants, Spider Man sunglasses, math notebooks, boots, ballet slippers, police matchbox cars, Game boys, Little House on the Prairie books and Dominos, the Matronly brain itself becomes such detritus. She is unable to focus. To move forward. To commandeer the crew, as it is.

And the Matron has mentioned that debris just flies off of Scarlett. Pig-Pen is not a cartoon character. No, he had transgender surgery and is now living in her house.

This is a shelf in the Matron's bedroom.



This is one in Scarlett's.


The aerial view, to appreciate density and depth.


Another peek? (know that the Matron relies on ancient series of yogic breaths just in order to post these)

IF the Matron cannot tolerate clutter, Scarlett cannot tolerate free surface space, it would appear. That Kleenex box sits upon 50 ponytail holders.



She can be home just under five minutes and this will appear on the floor.



As said before, the Matron and Scarlett have had some dark Freudian battles over this room. Trusting in the time-honored power of Total Deception, the Matron developed a habit of spending a few speedy minutes in Scarlett's room every single day in order to keep bugs, rodents and her own psychological dissolution at bay.

If she missed a day, it became difficult to open the door.

Last night, as costumes from Scarlett's Private Backyard Theater Company filled the entire floor and props filtered out into the hallway, the Matron could no stop herself: she picked stuff up -- while Scarlett was in the house.

And got caught.

Post-hysteria --and I mean this morning because this is a child who made a conscious decision to stop pooping at 3 and went 27 days (and then did it again) AND who once belly-crawled to the car in protest over life's ambulatory requirements --- so this morning we had some semblance of a conversation in which Scarlett stuck to her assertion that her room was just that, hers.

And the Matron held forth that certain standards of hygiene and decency must be enforced. She's willing to concede the clutter. To a point. She believes that a parent should be able to enter the room without being bitten by wildlife.

Scarlett firmly disagrees. In fact, she has declared the Matron to be persona non grata.

So. That Matron? She is backing off. Not because that's the right thing to do -- encouraging autonomy in her child, developing trust or anything that sane.

No, she's banking that one day Scarlett forgets and Total Deception can start all over again.

Break A Leg, Scarlett

Scarlett was seven when Theater stole her from me. This happened while she watched a performance of Esperanza Rising at the Children's Theater. She wept--mourned, wailed and railed-- about illegal immigration until well-past midnight. The play's topic became urgent and real. Art had hold.

A couple of months later, she and a 15-year old friend wrote, produced and directed a backyard production of Annie that involved 27 children, 100 audience members, a sound system, choreography, enormous painted backdrops and red hair dye (lasted six weeks).

You know who's Annie.

During the course of the week-long rehearsals, Scarlett requested email addresses for the children's families so she could better communicate with her cast. She is not yet eight.

When I tucked her into bed after the first rehearsal, she offered this: "Mom, why don't those orphans listen better? They're supposed to do what I say." A director is born. You can rework those letters just a bit to get dictator, you know.

John and I were in charge of food. Lots of it. Those orphans had no issues there.

Next, Scarlett auditioned for Little Bird at SteppingStone Theatre, St. Paul's children's theater. She stood on that big stage and belted out a song. She shivered and cowered on cue.

She didn't get in. But she went back for the very next audition with undiminished joy. And landed the role of Gladys Herdman in The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. You know the book. This Official Theater Debut came four months after Annie.

Scarlett recognized that SteppingStone Theater was actually her new home and a much better place to be. Below, here she is, once again embodying poverty, in The Prince and the Pauper.



The cast of The Prince and the Pauper then became the cast of The Sound of Music for Scarlett's Second Annual Backyard Production. She was Gretel. And all those teenagers from SteppingStone traipsed to our house for more singing and dancing, under Scarlett's Command. She's eight now.

Our neighborhood is high on a bluff above the river. When I mentioned to a neighbor that Scarlett was rehearsing a backyard play she said: "We all know. These hills are alive with the sound of music, my dear." And it made life a little sweeter, she said.

I didn't feel like a real stage mother -you know, all claws and competition--till auditions at the Guthrie. This is the real deal, folks. Cash money and world stage, all that. Here is Mary's Very Fine Rule for auditioning at the Guthrie Theater: Do Not Talk To The Other Mothers. Then, you're fine. Here's Scarlett as Maisie McLaughlin, impoverished and dirty Irish waif in The Home Place.


Check out that playbill. Yes, that's her in the second picture, the only person in pony-tails. Scarlett rubbed shoulders with Fame. And what did the famous do in return? Showered her with candy. gifts and generosity of spirit. The child landed a Webkin, drawings, flowers, jewelry, ornaments, (did I mention candy?) books, boundless good will and adoration. She was also exposed to a staggering scale of swearing, drink and Late Night (uh, some of this from her very own Mama). The child supervisor said he tried to cover her ears at just the right moments.

Every night she stood on that stage and hundreds applauded. That was her favorite part, she reports.



Tonight is Opening Night for Almost to Freedom at SteppingStone Theater. Scarlett plays Mary-Kate, the plantation overseer's daughter. It's a stark, beautiful play about slavery. Kim Hines did the adaptation from the book by Vaunda Micheaux Nelson. If you don't know this book, it's worth trying.

Have a great night, my darling! Remember, you still sleep here. You're only nine, after all.



Home Place Photo credit to Michal Daniel of Proofsheet Photograhy

Ski Trip, ll

Despite the climate (Minnesotan) the ski trip was lovely! My friend and I had a two hour conversation over coffee. Thus fortified, we shopped and lunched while the children skied. Nary a matronly toe touched snow.

Plus, we discovered that Scarlett -- who once reported being allergic to weather--can ski!

Due to a disastrous first stab at skiing four years ago, Scarlett was even less enthusiastic than I over the trip. Imagine. Yes, screams and threats flew in all directions (and from all the major players in this drama)--and that was just to get both of us in the car.

After further ado, she was forced onto skis and handed to the poor instructor. I left with my friend, watching Scarlett glower as we walked away. For those of you unfamiliar with Scarlett's amazing powers, the Glower exudes radioactive material and can kill.

When we called to check in at lunch time, Scarlett reported being "happy." This is not a word I associate with my daughter. I demanded Stryker get on the line: "Has she hit her head? Fallen on a pole?"

No, Stryker reports. "Mom, she's a natural."

Turns out that Scarlett hurled her hysteric self down the hill and was hooked, period. The ski instructor thought maybe we should hook her up with permanent lessons. The phrase "natural ability" was uttered.

Well, well. That little apple strayed from the maternal tree this time!

Thanks to all the dear friends who employed prayer, charms and potions to guide me through my foray into nature: I survived!

Christmas Correspondence

Dear Scarlett,

You are a very loving child. But I am afraid that I can’t give away your gifts. Each gift is specially elf-made only for a specific child. If the child isn’t there, the gift can’t come through the chimney or window. Once the gift is in, it cannot leave. So here I am, inside, with presents that cannot leave.

Scarlett, every Christmas many, many children like you leave a similar note, concerned for children with less than they.

Every time a child asks to give up their gifts to others, my Magic allows me to take toys from the Emergency Bag (because sometimes presents fall during the sleigh ride – we travel swiftly) and give more toys to poor children. So the more children who have plenty think about others, the more those children are helped.

Kindness always touches others. You can also give away your extra toys, clothes and books to a homeless shelter. Those are the children I worry about most. They’re the hardest to reach, without a chimney or window! Please ask your parents to help you pack up what you don't need, and give away.

You know the meaning of Christmas: Love. So love in your own family (even the brothers) and that will change the world too.

Love

Santa

John Drove For This One

Scarlett wraps up one Guthrie gig and immediately auditions for another: a read through of Little House on the Prairie.

The only problem is that she's already in a SteppingStone Theatre show during the week of the read through. Doesn't matter. She wants to audition.

Translation: she wants a parent to drive her to Minneapolis during rush hour, wait in long lines, cower in the face of Competition, make excruciating small talk (perhaps even comparing notes: "Oh, what has your daughter done?"), and then drive her back home again.

This brings me back to October, when she begged to audition for a play while currently rehearsing for The Home Place at The Guthrie.

I held up the schedules -- incompatible. "You can't do both," I reason. "You're already booked. Why bother?"

Scarlett: "I LOVE to audition. Please, please, please. I NEED to audition!"

She auditioned for the show she couldn't do.

The current Guthrie audition is for children who sing well. Scarlett does. Many sing better. They are to sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."

This is The Guthrie. You can bet there will be quasi-pros queuing up, rehearsals held, lessons had.

I ask Scarlett: "Do you know the words?"

Scarlett: "Sorta."

Me: "Do you know the tune?"

Scarlett: "Mostly."

So once again she wants to audition for a show she probably can't do and to boot, is ill-prepared for.

For the year she's been acting--the shows and all the auditions--I have kept my mouth shut. I have taken her to stages with uncombed hair (its natural state), mismatched clothes, and rings of chocolate (or spaghetti or sucker) around her lips. There has been neither tutelage nor immersion in topic of play. John and I have put cross-country mileage into this child's transportation needs. Her older brother says of the crowd around his sister: "I am openly jealous." Her younger brother told a friend he could have Scarlett's room because "my sister lives in a play." Bedtime during October turned into midnight, all that Guthrie juju shooting through her addictive little veins. When someone called to tell her that she was on TV, she said, "So?"

So. So I say: "I think you should know the words."

Scarlett runs to her room in outrage, screaming.

You know those cartoons where the character morphs into someone else? Their face contorts and plasticizes and they snap into someone new--like a Super Hero?

This begins to happen to me, only the emerging figure is a uniquely pathological mixture of Joan Crawford and Gypsy Rose's mother, Rose. Electricity actually popped off my fingertips and my head spun, twice.

I'm going to rent The Shining and start working on my novel.

Things are looking up around here.

Nostalgia, More

At the time, I was trying to take a picture -- a normal, every day sort of picture capturing a keystone event: Scarlett's first day as a preschooler at JJ Hill and Stryker's entrance into the real ranks, first grade.

I can't remember why, but for some reason Scarlett was mad at me (the neatly coiffed hair may be an indicator, though) and refused to smile. Check out that glare.

As for Stryker? Knowing I wanted to mark the day with a photograph, he decided to stick a suction cup to his forehead first.

Scarlett Discovers New Symptom

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?

Scarlett's New Trick

She can't be alone. Not ever. Not for an inhalation. Not for sneeze nor sniffle. Yes, she would love for someone to watch her pee, brush, chew, sleep, scratch. She wouldn't get out of bed this morning. You heard me. My 9 year old refused to get out of bed.

She didn't go to school.

I spent the day alternately flabbergasted and ambushed. One minute I'm mired in introspection and despair, the next I'm commandeered. "Mom!!! I see that I'm alone! Where are you!!?"

Then I remembered the poop. When Scarlett was three, she decided to stop pooping (she'd been out of diapers well over a year). "Mama, I'm never going to poop again."

After about two weeks, we started dribbling caster oil and prune juice over her food. She stopped eating. At three weeks, she noticed her water tasted strange (that's called a laxative, honey!). She stopped drinking.

I brought our starving, dehydrated, constipated, tummy-distended child to the Emergency Room where she got an IV for fluids and an enema. Don't even try to imagine this.

When we got home, she said, "Mama, I'm never going to poop again."

This time, after 14 days I called someone smarter than God, our Early Childhood and Family Education teacher, Saint Atonement, even though it was summer and this woman was on her well-deserved vacation. I told her the story-- how Scarlett wouldn't poop and how we were trying to intervene. Actually, normal life had ground to a halt long ago. We lived on the potty.

Without hesitation, Saint Atonement said, "Three is a big time for individuation. This could just be her attempt. Ask her who is in charge of poop - Mom or Scarlett."

I asked. I stood in the hallway, out of view, while Scarlett was in the bathroom killing time. Hey, kiddo, who is in charge of your poop! Casual, like 'how's the weather in there?'

"You are, Mama. You are in charge of my poop."

I am now on the floor, tallying future psychiatric bills and ready to rip out my own bowels. But instead, I do what I always do under parenting duress. I behave exactly the opposite of my own self -- I channel Saint Atonement. My voice is a melody of calm, simultaneously caring yet professionally disengaged.

"Scarlett. You are in charge of your own body. You are in charge of what goes in, and what comes out. Nobody can force you to fall asleep, poop, pee, or eat. You are in charge. I have my own body and I'm 100% separate."

Pause. "Oh," she says. And she poops. Flushes. Comes out and asks for crayons. And never, ever does that again.

Later, I recount the entire exchange to Saint, hoping to get a grip on Scarlett's psychological fate.

She contemplates, then whistles. "To control a bodily function like that. What will. You have to kind of marvel at that kind of will. It will be interesting to see how things develop."

Why aren't I writing about the other two?

Scarlett Starts The Day With Half an Hour in the Second Floor Hall Closet

"Mom, don't you guys ever dust in here?"

Considering Wednesday's debacle, this seems smooth.