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. 

Renewal!

Perhaps the Matron herself has the Vitamin D blues?    No.    Friends, this may be hard to believe but the Matron pretty much forgot about her blog!

The massive, freighted, long-awaited, and somewhat dreaded 50th birthday brought yours truly to a long journey defined, in part, by yoga and meditation.   She has spent the past few weeks fully rooted in the body and moment.    But that itch!  That darn creative tug!   Got her again and she's back to blogging as Versatile Creative Outlet.  Or maybe it was the haircut that got her back here again - you know, fresh, springy start?

Regardless.

Today is all about the update, readers.     No major Matronly changes other than hair . . . oh, and this!

This is the Matron's office.  Yes, she loves this space very much and who wouldn't?  Right outside of those pretty windows is a panoramic view of the Twin Cities, thanks to the beautiful river bluff along which her family lives.   But the deep hue blue is the story here.

Several weeks ago, yours truly mentioned to her beloved that a friend's bathroom (yes) was The Perfect Color for her office.   She clutched her chest and sighed with joy, just thinking about that precise blue.   A color like that made peeing a pleasure!  Just think what it would do against her white woodwork and windows!  John nodded and slurped, as he was doing man-like eating (another blog post) during her discourse.

Imagine her surprise when she came home a week later to find her previously sage green office the precise shade of blue!   That man she married had called the friend to get the paint number, purchased a bucket, undid the office, painted, and put everything back together again while this little cat was away.   The Matron herself didn't lift a delicate finger.  This demonstration of love after 21 years together.

Of course, she cried.   Now that blue?  Even better.

Speaking of better -- Merrick is.

Every night his mother plugs 5000 units of Vitamin D into that meter and she imagines those units immediately off to work:  beef that boy up!   He is fully returned to himself and that boy, returned to his mother.  She likes this relationship much better than the one with the soggy child on the couch.    Unfortunately, Vitamin D hasn't made Merrick appreciate the value of education, bathing or broccoli.     Still, she can hope.

Scarlett is not just a blog post but a novella.    In August, the extremely-amazing-intimidating ENT specialists at the University of Minnesota broke the following news to Scarlett and her parents:  1)  the vocal cord nodules were nearly gone and 2) in their stead, erupted an ugly lesion and hemorrhage.      On the outside chance that this career-threatening injury could heal without surgery ( and trust her, it is not as simple as "Adele did it" which she would appreciate not hearing) Scarlett was ordered on a month of silence.  So that child got an official bona fide medical leave from school and stayed home with her white board.

And her mother.   The Matron is not sure who experienced more internal dialogue and upheaval during that month, but try for a moment to have a teenager utterly home bound for a month --and following you with a white board.

She has long returned to school and the miracle did happen:   hemorrhage and lesion are now things of the past.  The vocal cord is still in recovery -- all swollen and soft and partially effective -- so Scarlett remains outside those theater doors, marking month six without a show.    Much to everyone's surprise but Scarlett's, she has revealed reservoirs of resilience, wisdom, and wit -- characteristics that her mother (however adoring) didn't even know her daughter had.  

But dedicated readers will know that theater is hard-wired into this child so she can reassure that this has not been a divorce-type situation.  Scarlett attends a performing arts high school and so gets to sing (sometimes), dance, and act (using voice sparingly) every day; she is also serving a local theater in various non-acting capacities.

Scarlett is not biding her time but making the most of it.  

  Proud Mama!  Here is the Matron with her daughter, heading off to a fundraiser with a wardrobe challenging 70s theme.

He Who Cannot be Named (HWCBN) will receive another academic award at his high school this week, honoring the top ten students in each graduating class.  

About a month ago, this is what HWCBN said to his mother:  "Things are going really well for me right now. I'm happy!"    He was a little surprised by points A and B in that statement:  things going well, happy.     The Matron will confirm that this is indeed reality and not wishful thinking.  

You know those all important college tests, the ones where your score actually DOES matter?   Good -- extremely good -- news on that front.  You know that social piece, where it's nice if people in high school actually like you?   HWCBN was given the junior spot as "prince" in the "Winter Court," a winter-type Homecoming (and if you could see the snow still on the ground you would understand why Minnesotans require Homecoming type events in January).

The Matron pretty much summed up her beloved with the paint story:  he is still on bended knee, at her service.   Plus he does all kinds of manly things besides eating.  Satan's Familiar can still yip the stuffing out of  Thanksgiving and the coon hound (Boc) has grown into his full, two-year old majestic self.   At 90 lbs, he can take out the Matron with a hearty tail swipe.    She just winces and ducks when he runs down the stairs to hurl himself at her as evidence of his undying love.  

And all she is left with is a fresh layer of dog hair.  It's sort of like fairy dust, that stuff.

The Matron has scratched that creative itch and scratched the surface of her tiny, messy, expansive, singular life -- which she is very much enjoying and plans to share again.  Here.

Merry Matron Update!

The Matronly return to the blog has thus far been somewhat somber.  Here, she will update regular (for those hanging in!) readers with news of the day.

Wait.  She means year.    Slim blog pickings lately, she knows.

Friends, she is relieved and stunned to announce that it is a good era in the family life.  For the most part, people who live here like one another.    The details?

He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN) has one foot out the door.   The middle of his junior year is so far defined by academic and debate (varsity team) successes notable enough to be already be opening college doors in a variety of ways.   More importantly - on a minute by minute basis for a 16 year old -- he is the proud owner o fa 1999 Lincoln Continental, purchased from a neighbor by a fraction of the Blue Book value and stocked with music like this --

Okay, there is less palatable fare but we'll leave it at that.

Important to the Matron on that same minute by minute basis?   He is nothing but compassion, grace, and dry wit toward his mother.   These are the reasons she is not unhappy to get up at 5:30 am on school days to prepare a heartfelt breakfast (bacon!  scones! eggs!) -- every morning.  For which he thanks her.

Much has been written here about Scarlett, veteran of the stage at age 10.   Dearth here -- in fact, the Matron thinks that her last Stage Mother update was nearly a year ago!    Much has transpired since, none of it predictable.

Scarlett was first diagnosed with vocal cord nodules, a not -uncommon condition which resolved itself only to reveal a large lesion and hemorrhage previously hidden by the nodes.  These conditions?  Not so common.    Not only was the daughter immediately whisked off stage (she even quit a show, which is unheard of only to the point of tsunami in theater) her doctors at the University of Minnesota's Lion's Voice Clinic (best around) sighed that surgery was the most likely option.

Still.

Very Fine Surgeon Specializing in Singers:   "I would be unethical to perform this risky surgery on a 14 year old.  There's a .5% chance that the lesion will heal on its own.  We have to take it."

But the chance?  Required one month of complete vocal rest.

That child -- the one onstage since 8 and the center of an astonishing array of friends and social events -- was suddenly silent.  She took a medical leave from school.  She communicated with a white board and dry erase marker.  She said 'no' to sleepovers and trips to the mall.  No friends, except those able to adhere to the guidelines (few).  Instead of being in shows, she saw them.    She follows the surgeon's rules to the letter of the law, all in the hopes of avoiding a dangerous (to a developing voice) surgery.

And . . . she did it!!

The Matron remains in awe of this young woman's resolve and discipline.    She also remains  . . . here, she is at an uncharacteristic loss for a single pithy word.   How to describe having your 14 year old daughter tethered to the home front for a month?    The Matron is hugely grateful for that time -- but the medical leave from school and month of silence was a family endeavor.   Psychological fortitude was in demand from all the players (maybe even more so for the mama?).

She wouldn't trade that month for the world.  Or do it over.

Merrick remains the tag line, adorably uneventful at 9.   Give him a dog and a stick -- still --and promise him there's no school tomorrow and you have the prototype for Ideal Human.   The richer, more complex addendum to the tag line that is the youngest is that he is a full-body person, the kind who does not necessarily thrive in school or willingly pick up a novel.  No.

Merrick's Teacher:  "Mary!  It's so interesting that Merrick doesn't turn in assignments during the day.  He just does a couple of problems or something halfway and then finishes.  I ask him 'Merrick don't you notice that everyone else is working' and he says, yup."

Matron: "Can he stay inside during recess or somehow have a consequence for this?"

Teacher:  "I don't believe in punitive measures.   This will sort out.'

Indeed.  The Matron thinks that 'punitive' is sometimes promising -- and actually, a fact of life.   Also a fact of life, this mother would rather the teacher do the dirty work.  So much easier that way.   Unfortunately, parenting is not the easy path and this mama and her husband?    Trying to build responsibility into Merrick's bone structure.  

Life is good for the young people in the house are, in a word:  poised.  One is readying for college and another for that next audition, both ready to make that mark somewhere outside of the home.  The youngest doesn't yet know that he too is ready for launching, as it's the parents who be lighting that cannon.  Still, it's happening.

And yours truly?

After 16 months of agony and defeat, the Matron has accepted reality and the new number that comes with it.  She has no problem declaring her rightful claim on 50.  Indeed, she appreciates that there are some things in life that are, now, a younger person's game.    That's okay.   But there's a secret, enduring tool that yours truly possesses and that is her great, big, highly-functioning brain.   Now, this entity can give her no end of trouble (oh, the roads we take!) but can also shine when the body and beauty ache.   She plans to use it.

Starting with . . . . yours truly has been commissioned by an actual, real, professional, theater company to write a play!!    She's a hired gun here and grateful for it, so can't spill any details - yet.  But she will when the time is right.  In the interim, know that one intrepid writer will be getting paid for her work.   Other people will experience her work:  it will be staged!!   Tickets will be sold and an audience, clapping!

This makes one 50 year old very, very happy.

Now, you say:  how does she do it?    Career, teenagers, elementary school child, college looming, theater, marriage to maintain, play to write, dogs to coddle?!!

Here is the Matron.

Actually, not quite.   Her will of steel hasn't loosened but her desires have.  Slowly, steadily, the Matron has learned not to worry about work.  She doesn't.   Her job -- while it has its moments - is largely like chopping vegetables:  a task that must be done.   It isn't stressful but takes time.  When one is immersed in the task, there is joy in completion and excellence.   That's it.  She doesn't chat about colleagues or worry what might happen next, but has learned to show up and be a great teacher.    She dabbles here and there in other interests, as required, but as learned the language of "No but thank you."   This has meant a shift from being deeply engaged in college-wide issues, serving on lots of committees, and being tapped (and saying yes) to take on all kinds of leadership or interesting positions.    Not now, anyway.

Being a great teacher, she also has learned, does not mean spending hours and hours on semicolons in student papers.  That, friends, has proven a tremendous waste of time.  More on that, later.  But a more refined focus on writing instruction that doesn't require The Teacher as the only expert in the room has made this task much easier as well -- and pedagogically sound.   Blog post on this soon, she promises.

Perhaps the most significant change is much less quantifiable.  Indeed, it is nearly inexplicable and warrants her attention on its own little page here, which will be coming.  Suffice it to say, those 16 months building to that birthday weren't wasted away but produced transformation.  Something majestic, even.

Finally, the Matron's stalwart companion of 21 years?  John too turned 50.  Instead of wringing his hands for an entire year or buying a Harley Davidson, he woke up on May 19th and said:  "well, I'm 50" and then mowed the lawn.    While patiently watching his wife's extended breakdown.  He's eithe a keeper or crazy himself!

There, is the not so pithy but more complete, update!  

Happy holiday season, of all sorts, to each of you, dear friend and reader!

Maybe Someone Will Mention Freud?

Tomorrow, the Matron is hosting the English Department faculty for a Fall Semester Precursor Potluck.  Fun!  Her entirely-pleasant colleagues will attend  - with their families.   This would also include young children.  

Young children who perhaps have not yet been introduced -- or whose introduction has been condoned -- to the world of SWAT and militia in which the Matron lives.   Her house.   A quick survey this early Saturday morning reveals no less than 20 guns (air soft, nerf, toys of various sort) in plain sight.    The place is a bunker.    She can imagine tomorrow's discourse over Julia Kristeva being peppered with gunfire and small children bleeding from their eyes . . . oh wait.  Nobody's going to be talking about Kristeva.  She forgot--COMMUNITY college.   Conversation will center on retention and grammar.

Oh well.

Still, today is the munitions sweep.   Which reminds her of a favorite parenting moment and a pretty darn funny blog post.  Happy Saturday!

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

Our kids go to a public Montessori school that is also an international peace site. The schools is known for attracting left-wing, hippy-dippy, peace-sign wielding families.

Mean looks are disallowed. Breath hard? You need therapy. People are serious about peace here. Righteous.

Merrick had his first ever birthday part today: Five Years Old!

He invited six little friends from his combined age 4 and 5 year old classroom--and his longtime, best friend, probably future husband Lachlan.

Spouse aside, these kids were total strangers to our family. Most of this little group of five year olds are all first-born to their families, trend setters.

Thus, there were detailed phone conversations in advance of this major social event. Little Q gets a tummy ache after eating wheat. Will there be toast or cracker? T and L don't quite get along. Can't we disinvite one? H. is scared of dogs. Can you euthanize yours?

So today all the fussy parents dropped off their kids for Merrick's birthday party. I used to be one. I understand.

The children held hands. They sang in harmony. Girls and boys pecked cheeks--they shared cake and inquired about hurt feelings and state of mind. They frolicked and radiated sun beams and goodwill.

Until one of the kids went under the couch (why do they do that?) and stumbled across Merrick's hidden arsenal: Knives, swords, guns. Big guns. Lotsa guns. Pop guns, Nerf guns, shot guns, air guns. Sky's the limit.

Now, our household went nearly ten years without guns. I am (theoretically, Opposed). But last year, a friend handed Merrick a bag. He opened it and found a 1950 style pistol. He never looked back.

And because he is child number three, we just took the Path of Least Resistance.

Guns inspire love. This exchange routinely takes place in our household.

Merrick: "Here's my gun!"

Lachlan: "I wove the gun!"

Merrick: "You take the gun."

Lachlan: "No, you take the gun. I wove you."

Merrick: "You have the gun. I wove you better."

And so on.

So the over-attended peace loving children found our cache of juice. Those young ones dropped their flowers and love beads and took up arms. Girl and boy, they spent the next hour killing one another.

Now, this transformation began while I was in the kitchen. By the time I walked into the war zone, a dazed John was asking what kind of Kool Aid we were serving.

Watching D (only child allowed just 15 minutes of television a week and taking careful selection of dance, language, and Suzuki violin) scream with joy while taking out Merrick with a Nerf bazooka, I decided just to let the whole thing go.

Lord of the Flies? Yup. Mini-reenactment here. By the time the mayhem was complete, the children were sweaty, exhausted, content, murderous pros.

Before the parents arrived, we put away weaponry and handed out banal party bags; tootsie rolls, noise makers and plastic frogs. Not exactly lying.

Little D slid up to me: "This was the best party ever."

I considered explaining to parents at pick up time: yes, we have guns. We have them. They were hidden. Big accident, lotsa fun, apologies.

But I didn't.

I decided to let nature take its course. And imagined lots of this, at bedtime:

"Merrick has guns!"

" I shot L!"

"Merrick has a shot gun. Why can't I?"

"Today at the party we all killed each other! "



Rite of Passage

As the guests arrive at my son's party
they gather in the living room--
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? Six. I'm seven. So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in each other's pupils. They clear their
throats a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the dark cake, round and heavy as a
turret, behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in his clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats,
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son's life.

Sharon Olds

Fifty

Here is John.

He is 50 years old.  Actually, he is 50 years and three days old in this photo.   Friends, this is actually a bad picture of the Matron's husband.  He has an adorable, sexy semi-smirk that's absent here; also absent is the typical careful attention to hair.   Still.

When the Matron was a Youngish Miss, she and her then-fiance did what most people do when encountering a red light while driving.  They stopped at it.   While stopped, the three young women in the car next to the driver's side honked lightly and . . . . one held up a sign with a phone number.  She looked at John, tapped the sign and pointed to herself enthusiastically.

This is where the Matron (then a Youngish Miss) for the one and only time in her entire life actually really truly had this thought:  "What am I, chopped liver?"

Sometimes, the Matron jokes that John is prettier than she is.  Often this quip is made in her husband's presence.  He has never disagreed.

Look closely at this photo.  See those eyes?   See the firm skin beneath, free of the dreaded eye bags?  This is the last time that face will look so well-rested for the next four days.    The photo marks John's departure on his four day fiftieth birthday road trip.  He had no real plan -- just a tent, a car, a cooler and an open mind.

All the Matron knew was that he was going to do what newly minted fifty year old men do on the open road.

Well, except for what his wife wouldn't want him to do.  Otherwise . . . all that other middle-aged man stuff.

Text from John's first night of trip:  "Camping.  Raccoons in tent all night.   Didn't sleep.  Moved all food.  They know how to unzip stuff."

Text:  "Raccoons can get in zipped tents and open cans."

Text:  "Rain."

Text:  "Raccoons don't like rain.  Might sleep in car."

Text:  "Buying air soft gun for raccoons tomorrow night.  Might sleep in car."

Text:  "Going to hotel.  More later."

Text:  "Open mic at bar in rural wisconsin.  Near toothless man asking me if I know where babes are.  Professional drinkers only."

Text:  "Will there be clean sheets when I come home?"

When that man returned, he did not walk into the house.  Stumbled.  Between the raccoons (he camped with them for two days) and open mic nightmares, he had barely slept in four days.

Matron:  "But did you get what you want out of it?  I mean, the reflection, the time, the sense of a life on the road?"

John, confused:  "Mary.  I slept with raccoons rummaging through my clothes and destroying my tent the first night, up all night with a gun the second.  The tent I put up, took down, put up and took down.  Drove about 30 hours total.  High life was a metallic shed with the sign "bar" slapped on it that appeared to serve only chronic alcoholics in a town of 900.  Raccoons are evil.  If the devil exists, these are his henchmen."

Matron:  "Sounds like PUH-LENTY of material for reflection, sweetie."

John:  "Well . . . I did wonder a few things."

Matron, all eager!!    She could not wait to hear the epiphanies:  life, aging, family, career, love and spirit.  What is it like to actually face fifty -- the inevitable decline and recapping of a life?   What could her beloved share -- or what burden might he bear, ahead of her own impending birthday?  

John:  "Remember those girls, the ones who flashed the phone number at me at that red light?  Way back before children?"

Hmmmmm . . . . yes, the Matron remembered.

John:  "Do you ever wonder what they're doing now?"

Then the Matron understood.  Her husband was doing exactly what fifty year old men do--maybe even especially the pretty ones.   But the Matron didn't say this.

Instead she said:  "Then you're not going to be happy about the new pet raccoon?"

Satisfying reaction ensued.

    (there were clean sheets and no raccoon--sorry, Merrick)

Happy Birthday, Merrick (Late Again)

Merrick,

You know you're the third child when your mother --- on the actual DAY of her other children's birthdays -- posts long, loving picture-filled posts about these babies.

The third child?

Well, she forgot!

Worse yet, she went to Florida for a work conference and MISSED your birthday.

Merrick: "I can't believe you'we leaving me for my biwthday! Don't go!! Cancel that twip!"

Matron: "Honey, it's four days out of nearly 15 years. I really do need to go for work."

Merrick: "Then I'm asking Daddy to stay home."

Matron (same line she uses a lot): "Remember, Daddy and I are on the same team. If one of us says something, the other agrees."

Merrick: "I hate that team."

Honey, she fully appreciates that you do hate that team. But the team is sort of essential to mental health and parental stability.

And darling youngest child, your mother knows this has been a rough couple of months. You were recently (potentially - waiting for the neurologist) diagnosed with Tourette's Syndrome. At first, your mother thought it best not to mention this to you until the official confirmation but here's what happened at your 8 year old check-up:

Pediatrician (after observing Merrick for ten minutes during her exam): "Merrick? Mom? Do you mind if I ask another doc to come in and we can play a game with Merrick. Mom, you can watch or wait in the hallway."

Immediately, the Matron knew something was up. How many times do TWO doctors play a 'game' with an 8 year old for his well child check up? It was a nerve wracking game for the mama who watched the the ten minute board game.

Both were in agreement: Tourette Syndrome . And they sprung this on the Matron in front of Merrick -- whose teacher actually called a few days earlier to note that she was worried about the 'tics.'

Teacher: "Mary? Have you noticed that Merrick has some odd habits with his mouth and with blinking? Is he under stress? Other students have started to notice and make comments."

Matron: "I think he needs lip balm and more sleep. But thanks for asking."

And then after the 8 year old well check up in the car on the way home . . .

Merrick: "Do have tuwnip disease? Will I die fwom it?"

Matron (who at this point, fresh on the heels of the diagnosis she knows in her heart to be true, really wants to pull over and throw up and then cry): "No, no. You can't die. It's not turnips but Tourette's. It's when your muscles want to pull. You can't stop it and it's totally okay."

Merrick, in a statement that really did break her heart: "Is that why I need to blink and open my mouth? Sometimes I need to blink weally weally hawd and I can't stop it. And my mouth too. It feels good."

Matron: "It's just who you are. Just like I yawn or wiggle with my hair."

Merrick: "Kind of like Stwyker having braces, wight?"

Matron: "Right. No big deal."

For the rest of her life, the Matron will be grateful to this observant pediatrician who--in ten minutes -- explained many of the things about which the Matron and her husband had been wondering.

Neurology starts in April. This, after five hours of tests last month to follow up on the heart arrhythmia. The irony is that this is her athletic, body-bound kid who can hit a baseball and win a tennis tournament without any effort.

But for Merrick's 8th birthday? A bit of a fork in the road, friends. Guess who plans on heading the National Tourette Syndrome Association in about ten minutes after the official diagnosis. Only half joking and she's now an expert.

Merrick -- The future might have shifted for you. But your mom and dad are steadfastly by your side. You're a beautiful, shining spirit. And that's what everyone sees first.

And it took the Matron a long, long time to decide she could blog about Tourette Syndrome .

My baby.

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.

Happy Birthday (But Two Days Late) Merrick!

Merrick,

You know you're the third child when your mother --- on the actual DAY of her other children's birthdays -- posts long, loving picture-filled posts about these babies.

The third child?

Well, she forgot!

More accurately, she was busy organizing the World's Most Amazing Birthday Party in the History of Childhood (At Least Yours). Why? Because the birthday party featured special guest Uncle Steve (married to Daddy's TWIN sister) the Canine Cop and Cody the Police Dog.

Merrick, at your birthday you and seven of your closest friends watched a 90 pound German Shepherd take down Daddy. Who was wearing protective gear, but a major success, nonetheless.

Even though Uncle Steve does not share your blood, you share the same He-Man spirit. This is as close as it will get, honey.

Saturday, you turned seven. Let's just trip down memory lane, shall we?

Your mother never thought she'd have children. There's evidence of this somewhere, a wedding video replete with martinis and cigarettes, in which she swears off children like fleas. Three months later? Pregnant. Once she had one, she knew she needed a bundle of children, a pack. Not that she necessarily enjoyed children so much. Just that your mother recognized her own intensity demanded distribution among many rather than laser-like focus on one.

Because of -- well, big busy beautiful Life with complications -- your conception was delayed until your mother saw the big 4-0 bearing down, fast. Later, your parents decided, for the first time, not to find out which gender was brewing.

But one night, your mother got up to use the bathroom for the 200 millionth time. She looked out the window. Brittle snow and a bright moon, a black northern night. And as she turned from the window, she knew you were a boy. She felt you.

When you finally arrived (9 lbs and 11 ounces of you!), your parents simply threw you into the mix. One of the pack. So there was a lot of this:



You proved to be durable, of flexible purpose.


Usurped from her place as the youngest, your sister observed: "Merrick's head looks like a big chunk of meatloaf. He's a meatloaf head."

Mama asked: "How do you feel about your baby brother?"

Scarlett: "I half love him and half hate him."

Mama: "Have you ever seen meatloaf?"

Scarlett: "I have now. Meatloaf Head."

Meatloaf Head, your big sister's Love Half soon swelled to a Love Whole.




But the name stuck. Meatloaf Head or MLH for short. You also received no small amount of affection from your big brother.



Those big kids touched the moon! Later bedtimes! Books they could read without Mama! The freedom to stand up and grab a glass! They could perform miracles like making Barney appear on the television, cut shapes from paper, and make Grandma's voice come through the telephone. Their powers were magical, enviable.

So there was also a whole lot of this:




You are all about catching up. Keeping up. But sweetie, you stand alone in your love for our puppies. Here you are with the regal Thurston. The family misses you, gentle friend.


Your brothers and sisters came without the Zap Tingle Itch Ow! Skin with which you were born. Shorts? One pair will do, those with the perfectly worn elastic and tag long cut off. Shirt sleeves must fall 4 exacting inches below the shoulder with a neckline soft and pristine. You now need 20 minutes to put on your shoes because of that dreadful sock seam. The sock seam is Evil Incarnate. And it hurts your skin.

You loved motorcycles early, and still do. You got your first ride on a real motorcycle when you were three (ssshhh! don't tell Child Protection!). It was just 5 miles an hour and one block long, but still--you had arrived.



Even though you scream "Don't say that!" when she does: you are the Matron's sweet baby. You know that book, Love You Forever? Every night she sneaks into your room and stare. How lucky did she get ?

And when she can't get through that book without weeping? Scarlett steps in. "Here, Mama. Let me read that for you." Thanks, darling. Only makes her cry harder.

Merrick, you love weaponry, dogs and cats, stuffed animals and spicy rice and tofu. You are always good for a cuddle. You are a good friend and are lucky enough to share your brother's wicked sense of humor. Here, you decided that getting tied to a tree would be a really good time.



If your Ninja Turtle Sword is on the third floor and you're in the basement, your legs will hurt and tummy churn and certainly, your Mama will retrieve it? You have a way with balls and sport, batting like a 10 year-old, making basket after basket and catching Daddy's hard balls.

You play with this dog like you were one of the breed. Don't be. Remember, we're talking about Satan's Familiar.


Even though you can't read yet, you can slide down the stairs on your belly and will volunteer to be buried alive.


And you put on footie pajamas-- the minute you get home from school, every day! She figures you're a Coach Potato in training. You wear each pair until the toes are frayed and failing.

You are still comfortable in body and not in book. But she's learning that's okay.

Seven years on this planet! A wink and eternity.

Oh, and your Mama? The one who had her last baby (that would be you) right after turning a certain ROUND NUMBER starting with 4 (but cannot be named sorta like the elder son) has officially become a sentimental weenie: one big fountain at the thought - seven.

My baby.

Happy Birthday, Merrick

Merrick, today you are six! Your mother never thought she'd have children. There's evidence of this somewhere, a wedding video replete with martinis and cigarettes, in which she swears off children like fleas. Three months later? Pregnant. Once she had one, she knew she needed a bundle of children, a pack. Not that she necessarily enjoyed children so much. Just that your mother recognized her own intensity demanded distribution among many rather than laser-like focus on one.

Because of -- well, big busy beautiful Life with complications -- your conception was delayed until your mother saw the big 4-0 bearing down, fast. Later, your parents decided, for the first time, not to find out which gender was brewing.

But one night, your mother got up to use the bathroom for the 200 millionth time. She looked out the window. Brittle snow and a bright moon, a black northern night. And as she turned from the window, she knew you were a boy. She felt you.

When you finally arrived (9 lbs and 11 ounces of you!), your parents simply threw you into the mix. One of the pack. So there was a lot of this:



You proved to be durable, of flexible purpose.


Usurped from her place as the youngest, your sister observed: "Merrick's head looks like a big chunk of meatloaf. He's a meatloaf head."

Mama asked: "How do you feel about your baby brother?"

Scarlett: "I half love him and half hate him."

Mama: "Have you ever seen meatloaf?"

Scarlett: "I have now. Meatloaf Head."

Meatloaf Head, your big sister's Love Half soon swelled to a Love Whole.




But the name stuck. Meatloaf Head or MLH for short. You also received no small amount of affection from your big brother.



Those big kids touched the moon! Later bedtimes! Books they could read without Mama! The freedom to stand up and grab a glass! They could perform miracles like making Barney appear on the television, cut shapes from paper, and make Grandma's voice come through the telephone. Their powers were magical, enviable.

So there was also a whole lot of this:




You are all about catching up. Keeping up. But sweetie, you stand alone in your love for our puppies. Here you are with the regal Thurston. The family misses you, gentle friend.


Your brothers and sisters came without the Zap Tingle Itch Ow! Skin with which you were born. Shorts? One pair will do, those with the perfectly worn elastic and tag long cut off. Shirt sleeves must fall 4 exacting inches below the shoulder with a neckline soft and pristine. You now need 20 minutes to put on your shoes because of that dreadful sock seam. The sock seam is Evil Incarnate. And it hurts your skin.

You loved motorcycles early, and still do. You got your first ride on a real motorcycle when you were three (ssshhh! don't tell Child Protection!). It was just 5 miles an hour and one block long, but still--you had arrived.



Even though you scream "Don't say that!" when she does: you are the Matron's sweet baby. You know that book, Love You Forever? Every night she sneaks into your room and stare. How lucky did she get ?

And when she can't get through that book without weeping? Scarlett steps in. "Here, Mama. Let me read that for you." Thanks, darling. Only makes her cry harder.

Merrick, you love weaponry, dogs and cats, stuffed animals and spicy rice and tofu. You are always good for a cuddle. You are a good friend and are lucky enough to share your brother's wicked sense of humor. Here, you decided that getting tied to a tree would be a really good time.



If your Ninja Turtle Sword is on the third floor and you're in the basement, your legs will hurt and tummy churn and certainly, your Mama will retrieve it? You have a way with balls and sport, batting like a 10 year-old, making basket after basket and catching Daddy's hard balls.

You play with this dog like you were one of the breed. Don't be. Remember, we're talking about Satan's Familiar.


Even though you can't read yet, you can slide down the stairs on your belly and will volunteer to be buried alive.


And you put on footie pajamas-- the minute you get home from school, every day! She figures you're a Coach Potato in training. You wear each pair until the toes are frayed and failing.



Six years on this planet! A wink and eternity. Happy birthday, babe.