Meltdown

The Matron had one.

Earlier this week, John threw up his hands and declared bedtime a bad deal.

"I'm done with this."

He was referring specifically to the seven year old's two hour ritual: snack, reading, teeth. Then there's the hour and a half of 'checking' and, unfortunately, snuggling. Not that snuggling isn't good but shouldn't five minutes suffice? Then He Who Cannot Be Named is up until 11, doing 'stuff.' Scarlett is now home from the theater but is still on that late night schedule. She thinks she should be in a bar at midnight, winding down from a show.

The meltdown? Because for the past DECADE the Matron has been declaring bedtime a bad deal. Way too much intensive interface with youth. Too many midnight theater dates. Too many late night conversations. Too many back rubs and what-nots that continue until 11 pm. That's right folks -- 11 pm. And that doesn't include the theater drives.

But when the man in the house -- as much as she loves him, and she does -- notices a problem after TEN YEARS, suddenly the culture changes. Last night was much different.

Now, the Matron has a doctorate in English and, ahem, Feminist Studies. But guess who wipes the toilets every morning? Um . . think, think, think. Her!

So the irony of the instant change in the family rules isn't lost on her, even as she's hopeful the marathon will turn into a sprint.

Heat

Considering the kitchen: the Matron does not excel at heat. She can make a mean salad. There's pudding, various arrangements of fruit, and wicked sandwiches (add hummus to everything!). But put something in the oven or on a burner, and well, she's sort of toast.

Here's the scene. There are noodles on the stove and a chicken in the oven.

Her husband comes home, registers the emergency and immediately resets the oven temperature and turns down the heat on the noodles.

This annoys the Matron.

"Really! I have this under control!"

Another chapter in this story:

Scarlett: "Mom? Can Dad make us popcorn? I really want popcorn! I'm DYING for popcorn."

Matron: "Dad's busy. But I can."

Scarlett: "No thank you. I don't need popcorn."

Matron: "Scarlett, I am perfectly capable of popping corn in a pan and putting butter on it. I am 47 years old, have a doctorate, have traveled the world. I can pop corn."

Scarlett: "No thank you."

Then there was the quite remarkable Thanksgiving. Stryker caught his mother putting the turkey into the oven.

Stryker: "Mom!!! Where's Dad? Please don't do this!"

Now, the Matron has not only a problem with heat but with the whole narrative of inept motherhood -- completely competent women pretend that their houses are dirty, kids out of control, dinners boiled to death. If you read a lot of blogs about mothering, you find women highlighting (extending?) their shortcomings. It's currently hip to be inept at the fundamentals. You know what she means. There's some weird sort of value in dismissing the job, in lamenting the cookies not made and dishes not done--the kid whose camp you forgot.

But the cooking and heat thing in this household? Not the dismissive or imagined shortcoming, but a genuine family battleground.

Because the Matron will die at the stove top over her right to be in control of dinner -- even a bad one -- rather than have her husband come home and revise everything she's started.

"Hey, let me stir that pot."

"I can take over the pork loins."

"Are you sure you want the steaks to stay on the pan for so long?"

Makes her crazy.

Too many cooks in your kitchen? Or are you in the one in control?

Magic

several years ago, the Matron got deeply involved with this book:

Simple Spells by Barrie Dolnick.

Yes, there are potions involved. Herbs, tea, incense, candles, light. But the whole point was putting out your desire and need --and wish for the greater good -- to the Universe and seeing what happens.

The Matron and her husband would sit for an hour every night, setting out their dreams and wishing. They boiled oil. They crushed flowers. Burned a blue candle at exactly midnight. They DID SPELLS.

That phase, like so many others, ended. The spells faded. But so did the belief in magic --and that's not necessarily a good thing.

Lately, this intrepid family has suffered lots of failures, lots of no, lots of losses. Every sports try-out, a rejection. Every audition? You're number two. Try to get into a school? Uh, sorry. Aging grandparents? Ill and needy.

So today the Matron decided to pull out the spell book again--just to see what happens.

She's really not a believer in spells or religion. But there's something solid about sitting with your spouse for an hour every night, talking about the dreams, the demons, the desire.

Not really in it for the spell, but for that hour every night with her husband, talking. There's the magic again and she needs it.

Gone Fishing?

Okay, the Matron doesn't fish, but she'll be back on Wednesday.

New readers can pour through nearly three years of 5-day-a-week posts and be astounded at her creative output--and applaud her two day break.

One Bad Thing After Another

The Matron really cannot always blog about her children and their lives because, well, the operative word is 'their.' Their lives, not hers.

But she will just say this: her poor little family is battling one major disappointment after another. Boom! One kid hit. Boom, crash, bang. Same kid hit more. Ping! Another kid hit. A third bites the dust with his/her own disappointment (and trust her, some of these are BIG) too.

Sigh. . . . what do you do, parents?

She's already dreading college and the Ivy League applications and, most likely, rejection letters.

Send her good juju, folks. Those creative juices are residing somewhere in the Bahamas, too. She is trying to buy a plane ticket for their return but no luck. Maybe all that volcanic ash in Iceland somehow floated into and clogged her own operating systems. . . .

Memory Lane

The Matron's creative juices are more or less visiting the Bahamas.

So she's traipsing through the past for material.

When the Matron and her husband moved the crew into their current home, they were in love with the neighborhood -- a gem nestled above the city with a vast regional parks and (from her window!) a panoramic view of the entire city. All the houses were tidy and well-maintained and neighbors included golf pros, newspaper reporters, free-lance theater professionals, the Assistant Attorney General and other interesting ilk.

Except for the house next door.

This particular property was populated by people who seemed to hold no real jobs but held guns. Not that the Matron is fundamentally against guns (okay, she is) but should any 12 year old have a hand-gun in his pant's pocket? Let's just say that's not a rhetorical question.

The house was -- is -- owned by a single mother (call her J) with two adult sons. The problem was her boyfriend who brought with him two teenage boys from a previous relationship. The boyfriend, we'll call him K, was a big believer in all things dangerous. Not only did he carry a gun (and his kids did) but he had a 15 foot boa constrictor in the living room. NOT KIDDING.

Stryker: "Mom, can I go next door and pet the snake?"

Stryker: "Mom, can I just HOLD that gun?"

Stryker: "Mom, can I go with K on his motorcycle?"

Stryker: "Mom, do you like K's tattoo?"

To make the situation more interesting -- not that living next door to a life-threatening reptile and an ammunition factory wasn't fun enough -- the boyfriend fought with everyone all the time: his sons, the girlfriend, the neighbors. J was also a player at that table. Therefore, the Matron will forever be grateful to this household for introducing her to the term "small dick bitch" which is what you call your boyfriend at 3 am after a case of beer.

Now, the Matron is a good Buddhist and has been trying to disengage and not judge for many years. She worked hard to be friends with her neighbors, even while searching the internet for child-size bullet proof vests.

Still -- this very event occurred.

One day a large truck showed up. Turns out K was leaving.

Matron: "Really? You're breaking up?"

K: "Swear to Satan. I am f$%% going to Afghanistan and shoot something."

Matron: "With your children?"

K: "They're armed and ready to roll."

Yes, yes, she's prone to hyperbole. But it was that bad.

So when the truck left -- and the gun-wielding men packed up their rats (did she mention that?) and snake, and the block became suddenly silent -- she walked into her kitchen and fell to her knees.

FELL ON THE FLOOR.

Matron: "I believe in Jesus! Thank you Lord!!!"

Stryker: "Does this mean we have to go to church now?"

No honey.. . . . but you won't get squished by a 15 foot seventy-pound snake or shot in the neck, either.

More on the High End Offspring She's Raising

In the van. . .

Stryker: "I want to go to MIT or Harvard."

Matron: "Great!"

Scarlett "I would make a better Helen Keller on Broadway. Plus, I plan to win an Oscar."

Matron: "Great."

Remember, she's also navigating that whole traffic thing. 'Great' is a generous offering.

Merrick: "I don't ever want to be the Pwesident when I gwow up. OW a big business guy. That's way too much wowk. "

Beat

Merrick: " I think I would be a good janitow or gawbage twuck dwiver. Ow maybe I can hold a sign somewhewe."

You go, guy! The Matron is newly fond of manual labor.