Friendship and Other Laments

The Matron has rather tried and true rules regarding blogging about friendships: Don’t. She has a great big slew of friends, men and women who sustain and inspire. One lovely friend comes immediately to mind. When Merrick was a toddler, yours truly was the campaign manager for a St. Paul mayoral race! Do you know what being a campaign manager for a mayoral race in a large city (okay, medium city) means? You work from 5:30 a.m until midnight every day for several months. Plus, there might be children you have to care for while your husband works his full-time job. And you don’t get paid!

The Matron has long been a political animal and her children started carrying signs and chanting the minute they were ambulatory. She’s sure that HWCBN will be a Tea Party member, just in the spirit of opposition. This is a rather long and winding way of saying that just days before the election, while she in the midst of constant crisis, panic, media frenzy and negotiation, Scarlett’s birthday happened to get in the way.

Scarlett: “Mom? Did you remember to buy the invitations for my 10 friends, the cake, the banner, the ice cream and make all those gift bags?”

Matron: “Uh, sure sweetie.”

Of course, she had completely forgotten about the Diva’s Big Day.

Matron on cell phone (to which she was physically connected for five months) to Really Good Girlfriend (sobbing): “How am I going to do all this work for the birthday bash? I have 15 meetings a day, forty press releases, 100 volunteers to manage and a skittish candidate!! Do you have any wine? Is this a good time to experiment with abusing prescription drugs?”

Girlfriend: “Don’t worry. The birthday is done. I’m on it.”

And readers? The day before the birthday party, this friend dropped off two boxes of stuff: party bags (stuffed and ready to go), cake, paper plates, napkins, party games, soda, paper cups, crepe paper streamers, plastic table cloth for the picnic table, candles, plastic forks—and wine. She had a local grocer deliver the ice cream the day of the event itself.

These are the kinds of friends the Matron has. And regular readers may notice that a post about a friendship, especially problems involved therein, are rare. So forgive her the wee bit-o-vent. Know the parties involved do not read this blog.

She tries to return the favor and goodwill modeled by her friend who saved the birthday (right down to a disposable camera for documentation, just in case). So when the Matron discovered – nearly two weeks ago—at 10:50 pm on a Wednesday night that Scarlett had lice, she declined to allow her daughter to accompany one of her best friends on a camping trip to Canada—a trip without a washing machine and with communal sleeping and living arrangements. They were scheduled to leave Friday afternoon. She had just one solid day, Thursday, to assess the situation and decide. Scarlett, on her end, gave up several callbacks and acting opportunities to take this trip. Sometimes bad things happen and lice was certainly one of them. She could not, neither as a friend or supporter of good public health, dump this problem on someone else.

Here’s the take-away question: do you treat lice on a Thursday morning and send your child off on a camping trip with another family the next day, expecting that they will do all the combing and retreating that lice require? Or do you empathically help the children involved deal with their great disappointment and let another family off the critter hook?

That is really a rhetorical question because she thinks it’s a no-brainer. Scarlett didn’t go (and cried for hours – one more reason to fully believe her mother is indeed set on ruining her life).

But the other family – who have one child and truly wanted a friend (who wouldn’t!) lobbied hard to take Scarlett. They offered to treat, to comb, to care for her. The Matron melted under pressure. Her no became a ‘well, maybe.’ She hawed and hemmed; she hemmed and hawed. She should have stuck to her immediate no but she’s weak in the people pleasing department. But when she found that last liquid, live egg on Friday morning? Clearly, the answer had to remain no. She made the hard call and cancelled.

Later that day, on the eve of the departure, the Matron called the parents to reiterate her concern for their daughter and her own apologies for the unfortunate situation. Scarlett’s friend answered the phone.

Matron: “Bethany, can I talk to your Mom?”

Bethany (so not her real name): “She has a headache.”

Matron: “Your Dad?”

Bethany: “Dad, can you talk to Mary?”

Father in background: “Tell her I have a headache.”

Upon their return, the father in question sent the Matron an email message in which he informed her that she created “three days of Crisis and Panic” for no reason, handled the situation poorly (okay, she will admit she should have stuck to her no instead of waffling) and otherwise ruined their trip. Surprise! He didn’t inquire as to whether or not the lice were gone or how that whole week of laundry and toil went –just made sure she knew she was a very bad person.

Although the Matron is working either toward sainthood or a really good gig during the next round of reincarnation, she did reply with a conciliatory message that sunk to one clearly sarcastic line thanking him for his ‘supportive and thoughtful’ message. After all, who got to go on a vacation and who combed lice out of hair two hours a day for a week at the start of the fall semester?

Then he emailed her this link, without comment.

http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/narcissistic-personality-disorder/DS00652

Thank God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe that Reason grabbed the Matron by her shoulders and firmly moved her away from the computer until she had calmed down enough not to offer her own friendly links for various psychological disorders. Instead, she ignored it. And blocked his email.

Damage, done. Friendships, altered. Someday there may be an apology? Until then –and because this is such good material (sorry, she’s wired that way) – she is considering this relationship blogging fodder and, alas, something from the past.

Of course, HE doesn’t have a blog wherein he gets to be the center of attention – uh oh! Maybe she better click on that link, after all!! She sort of likes living life out loud and in front of others (unlike HWCBN).

Shhh! Don't Tell Anyone

But the Matron is not stable.

And some of her favorite blogs are to blame. First, there is an infestation at the Manor. Mrs. G, how are you? The Matron (almost) knows your pain.

Three years ago, just as the Matron was conveniently running a high profile mayoral campaign nearly to D-day (voting!), the school nurse called to inform the already hysterical Matron that her daughter had head lice. Like two.

It appeared the nurse discovered the foul creatures about one minute after they jumped ship from her friend Lia's head, into Scarlett's.

But even one louse is an infestation.

On top of managing a campaign from 5 am till 11 pm (yes it was that crazy), the Matron now had to bag stuffed animals, wash every fiber in the house, vacuum each rug by its individual thread AND spend hours upon hours upon hours combing and sifting and examining the contours of Scarlett's head.

After the two lice were decimated and the five nits removed, she thought she was home free until another LONE LIVE bug was discovered 20 days later!

Sorry, Mrs. G. And the Matron had been combing that kid's head the entire time.

This time, after all the cleaning and laundry, the Matron made her child sleep with this on her head for 22 days.



How deathly afraid of contracting lice is the Matron? Friends, she also slept with that gunk on her head and didn't even have one single bug!

Unstable.

So yesterday, the Matron made her poor husband (who did not know these details when they stood at the alter) check her head for lice--thoroughly, even though he had better things to do than enable.

But her head still itches!

Then, the Matron happened upon HippyHappyHay's tapeworm recitation.


The Matron could not sleep that night, she was so full of this:



It's not your fault, friends. The Matron is so unstable that her hypochondria barely needs a trigger! Her current slightly clogged sinus? Probably cancer.

Indeed. . remember her recent $6000 date with the doctors? (yes, that was the bill the insurance company picked up for that little excursion) Deep down, the Matron knew she was fine and OVER-REACTING.

The Matronly panic over all things physical ebbs and flows. Frequently, she's fine. But under pressure (just ten more research papers and a couple of clashes over final grades ahead!), that hypochondria likes to give the Matron some bling.

Now, the Matron has the unusual privilege of having antibodies for not one, but two endocrine autoimmune diseases - Graves Disease and Hashimotos. When her grading is finished, she'll explain how to tape your eyes shut at night when they stop closing naturally.

Got your attention, hmmm?

She doesn't have to do that anymore. But! Her Judas-body also housed a rare endocrine cancer in its appendix. While she was being treated for that unpleasant condition, her oncologist DIED after heart surgery. It's unfortunate enough to have an oncologist, but doubly so when the person in charge of preventing your death capitulates to that condition himself.

Don't worry. There's a .000000000000000000000000000000000000000009% chance of that cancer coming back.

Still, if anyone has street creds in the Unpleasant Illness Department, it is the Matron.

Today, just after she talked herself down from the cliff of the sinus cancer, a student handed her this research paper: "Bladder Cancer: What You Don't Know Can Kill You."

And the Matron immediately had to pee. All day long. With burning sensation. She assumes this malady will cease when those grades are finally entered . . . .

Lice

The Matron had planned on rejuvenating her creative juices today.

Instead, she discovered that at least two of her three children have lice.

There's really nothing more to say than heaven help her. A shower cap, olive oil, and mayo are in her immediate future (it's okay to imagine that get-up now because she's wearing it and her husband SWEARS she looks good in a blue shower cap covered with olive oil and sex is still okay).

Another full-time job up ahead. Any advice or stories?

As the Semester Turns

Who does the Matron thank for this?

Her usual deity: God-Oprah-Buddha-Allah-Universe? The astrological stars? Perhaps some karma in a former life?

For the past couple of years, disaster besets the Matron at the beginning and end of every semester. Most memorably, she clearly remembers perching at HWCBN's bedside post-appendectomy, frantically entering grades online while waiting for her firstborn to emerge from anesthesia.

HWCBN: "Mom? You're here? I never knew you would do something like this. Thank you!"

The Matron resisted the urge to bop him over the head and say: "I'd die for you, dummy! This just requires sitting!" Instead she handed him ice chips.

But more predictable, the precursor to more than one new semester or the capstone to the end, when grades and papers are due? Ah, memories. This scene broke two days before the semester dawned, just a couple of years ago.

Scarlett: "Mom? My head itches."

No worries. After all, this is a child with a history. Her throat hurts, her head aches, her legs become cement. The stomach? This entity carries the weight of the world. Head itching seemed? Dandruff, no doubt.

Merrick: "Mom? Something is cwaling in my eaw."

This gets Instant Attention from the mama.

And so, began the Lice Chronicles-- replete with laundry, head scrubbing, combing, drama, pain, hours of internet research and the best comb and product -- and said Chronicles popped like book-ends around a busy Matronly academic schedule.

Reader? Girlfriend (and neighbor)?

You know where this is going.

Two days before school starts, right after being tucked into the parental "Big Bed" as a treat, Merrick bolts up and scratches his head.

Merrick: "I have lice!"

He was right. Yes, the critters have descended once again up the cursed household. After all, who wouldn't want to spend four hours combing hair and eight hours doing laundry for three holiday weekend days? While immersed in the frenetic psychological school preparation.

And even though Merrick is the only person hosting a colony, yours truly has treated her head not once, but twice (thanks Cetaphil) and plans to wear a plastic shower cap around the house for a month.

School starts tomorrow!

The Lice Chronicles, Part l: Just like Narnia, Kinda Sorta

Your poor dear Matron was buoyed by comments, suggestions, and sympathy in the comments on Wednesday; this helped her psyche and reminded her that life exists outside of a comb.

School--or at least the required work involved in preparing --starts Monday. The Matron spent six hours combing children's hair yesterday. That would be SIX. Add vacuuming every bit of upholstery and carpet and there you have her current universe.

After finding 72 dead bugs -- after treatment--on Merrick's head, she stopped counting.

She's certain she's going to be reincarnated into a member of the British royalty. With money and without lice.

In the meantime, creativity flags behind utility and combs . . . .

Open Letter to Her Family

Dear Family,

You know that bed, and how you sleep on it? This bed does not magically make itself in the morning, nor do the shades open. Yes, we all wish there were magic wands and wrinkled noses (remember Bewitched?), but sometimes life requires actual physical movement.

Speaking of which, no your mother cannot get up from dinner, walk to the fridge and get you a different beverage than the one selected; if you're ambulatory, you can do that yourself.

And the sort of silver thing stuck into the middle of the kitchen counters? This is a dishwasher. Dishes move in and out: dirty ones go in and clean ones come out. Now that this concept has been explained, she's certain you'll be excited to test out its practical application.

HWCBN? If the dishes appear unacceptably dirty after being run through said simple instrument, you might choose to rinse your plates and glasses thoroughly after using them.

The washing machine operates with the same mystical system that the dishwasher does, only this device cleans clothes. Wait! There's an extra burdensome step: the wet clothes go into the dryer. THEN you can take everything out--and remember that whole magic wand thing, wherein there's isn't one? Again, here too, physical movement --the folding and putting away of clothes--is also required.

Dropping toys, books, iPods, Game boys, and clothes on the floor isn't putting them away. She knows this is a bit of a surprise, but it is possible to put books on the shelf, toys in the box, and electronic devices in your bedrooms. The Matron knows this feat --unimaginable, yes--is possible because she does it all the time! Surprise!

If you have a sense of disdain and wounded pride because the van needs vacuuming and de-cluttering--and you're old enough to wield the vacuum cleaner--it is perfectly acceptable to pick up the papers and scraps on the floor and vacuum the van. She thinks it is entirely possible to manage this trick, as well.

Corn on the cob, apple cores, orange rinds and all those other organic materials that are so good to eat? That's why they end up in the compost bucket by the sink: you ate them. It might be a fun nature walk to take the twenty steps from the back door to the outdoor compost.

Yes, lice will set your mother over a dark edge. Yes, lice --and all its labor right at the beginning of the new academic year-- means that the other household work is writ large and has come more closely to the Matron's attention.

Family, she hopes this letter finds everyone well and enthused about expanding horizons and experiencing a few domestic adventures. There is nothing more exhilarating than clean sheets, right?

If making a bed doesn't kill you, it WILL make you stronger.

She promises.

At Your (and the rest of Humanity's) Service

Yes, the Matron spent Friday weeping as her son exited elementary school. This is how ordinary, how circumspect her child appeared.


See how everyone else is wearing a top hat?




Today, the Matron spent her day contributing to the Saudi oil economy.

Well, most of it. She tossed in a little bit of this, for spice and sass:

Ring! Ring! Ring! This is the telephone at 7:15 a. (#$#%^^$^) m. on a Sunday morning. A parent who also has a child performing at SteppingStone Theater who wants the full scoop on a morning parade in which the actors are walking - which starts at 10.

The Matron filled in this parent--here's the starting time, the location, the duration, the end game and all the players and their clothing sizes--and wondered once again what neon sign (CALL ME I WILL HELP YOU WHEN IT IS WILDLY INCONVENIENT) she was wearing.

The parent said this: "Oh, I know it's way too early to call!"

Yes! So why are you?

Those of you living in Norway, Hell, or even, say New York or Minneapolis, who are planning to track down the Matron and phone her should know that--aside from lice infestation or the discovery that Vampires actually exist --one thing terrifies her beyond all else: the early morning call.

Yes, she can run 6 miles and clean up voluminous doggie doo, but she cannot communicate with grace until she has ingested coffee and calorie. And she actually wasn't at all gracious this morning (sorry, parent, but if you go online you see the parade doesn't start till 10 and maybe even an 8:00 phone call would do and even that is too early).

So the Matron was crabby.

Bent on insuring that she cannot afford to retire until she is 97, at another early hour the Matron hopped in her van and drove Stryker to a morning baseball game in a suburb half an hour away.
Then, the Matron drove home, grabbed Scarlett and brought her to the parade. Seeing that the theater company had fewer water bottles than children, the Matron ran to a store and purchased more -- the unsolicited sort of assistance which she does not mind, one wit.

Soon, she drove to the suburb again in order to retrieve Stryker for his 1:00 call at SteppingStone (back to St. Paul) , where he is both Student Stage Manager and Baby Snake (on stage! he's the understudy, called up!).

Immediately upon returning home with Merrick, that child's friend -- who lives just two blocks from SteppingStone --confirmed an immediate playdate which the Matron (never mind Merrick) very much needed.

She drove right back from whence she came, deployed Merrick, and zoomed home to spend one hour cleaning up the mess that one morning of regular family life had made before heading back to SteppingStone to get Stryker to go BACK to the suburb for the tournament.

Alas, the game -- vying for the 3rd place trophy --started at the very same time the final performance of Anansi The Trickster Spider ended! The coach called her cell - in order to play, Stryker had to be there when up to bat. His team was up first! Stryker was the last in the order -- but! Hurry!

Odds against her, she went five miles over the speed limit (wild one!) and prayed for the best. The two-minute cell phone updates from parents in the stands looked grim! Stryker was screaming: "OH MY GOD. I CANNOT MISS THIS GAME. I WILL NOT SURVIVE!" For half an hour.

And as the Matron screeched up next to the dugout, the coach screamed: "OH MY GOD. STRYKER YOU ARE UP!" The boy lurched from the van, someone threw a helmet and bat at him and the Matron let the rest of the sweat pour down her back. Sweat is the new shower.

Then, while watching this nerve-shattering game, the Matron had the horrifying realization that she forgot Scarlett!!! The actors had a one hour work obligation after the show: the Matron was with Stryker but Scarlett was at SteppingStone and needed a ride --somewhere?!

So she became the VERY parent that annoys and begged someone else to care for and transport her child, at the last inconvenient and emergency minute.

Remember how great baseball season is going, bench time and right field, all that?

Stryker hit a triple! Then, at the bottom of the final inning with bases loaded, the other team up, two outs and a score of 3/3, Stryker caught a tremendously high, hugely alarming fly ball and sent the game into extra innings!!

Thus far, Stryker has not caught one damn thing. Not even grounders, wobbling along at 1 mile per month. Not a virus, not a hot dog in a basket. He drops balls that aren't even moving. After the Matron's heart rebooted, she got on her knees and praised The Powers That Be (God, Allah, Buddha, Mother Nature and Oprah): "Oh My Oprah! Thank you for not letting my child drop that ball!"

The team went on to win third place which includes medals!

Spent, the Matron drove back to St. Paul, picked up Merrick, went somewhere else to retrieve Scarlett and finally limped home where upon she unlocked the front door and Stryker said: "When's dinner? I'm starving!"

Monday morning when the children are in school? It's the Matron's Friday night.

Stage Mother

Guess who sat in a high school auditorium for FIVE HOURS tonight, waiting for the longest callback in the history of theater to end?

Redeeming factors are twofold.

First, she had her laptop and there was wi-fi.

Second, the show is Oliver. Guess who was one of two children narrowed down as Oliver (and asked to stay longer and sing more) -- one boy and one girl -- for that very role.

Keep your fingers crossed! Unfortunately -- or fortunately -- there are substantial conflicts in your favorite thespian's schedule. The family is taking a major summer road trip that will include Wicked on Broadway.

Scarlett would sell her soul for this. She currently inhales Glee as fuel.

Stage Mother actually possessed the Matron tonight because the busy community college teacher Matron has close to 85 papers to grade by Monday. She also likes to do a good job, so there's that whole time thing.

She spent a total of seven hours driving children today. Do other people do this? That's sort of a serious question.

Thank God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe she can function on adrenaline alone. Who needs sleep?

And so far, Merrick does not have lice. The Matron sent him to school in a plastic hair net. Not really, but there's that whole fantasy life again . . . .

More on Her Success So Far

Last week, the Pioneer Press notified the Matron that HER blog would be featured in a big piece on Minnesota bloggers!

Go Matron!

So she spent FOUR hours last week picking for the nits and lice that could potentially get her in trouble if half of the metro area started to read.

It was with great anticipation that she purchased an early Saturday edition of the Pioneer Press, a paper to which she does not subscribe (there, snub). She rushed into the house, opened the pages, found the article . . . . only to see that she was not actually included, after all.

Edited out.

This somehow reminded her of the time her literary agent sent her not one but ALL of her 27 rejection letters (novel) from New York publishing houses in one big fun Special New Holiday package-- accompanied by an unsigned dictated condolence letter.

She still gets an annual Christmas card from this agent. Which she burns.

On the bright side?

She's down to 27 student essays and 49 research assignments to grade. She would rather be constructing a complex and creative blog post but, duty! Calling.

How many papers on abortion and capital punishment does the world actually need?

Crabby? Who -- not the intrepid Matron on a sunlit Monday afternoon, on a relatively balmy November day?

Just a little.

The Maternal Body

Yes, dear readers -- there is much to say. Stage Mother is returning this week (full of angst and a new busy schedule), the Lice Chronicles are moving into syndication, and then there's the enormous puppy who is able to climb onto the kitchen table and eating everything. And then vomit.

What a fun week ahead!

But tonight, the Matron is more somber. She's sitting here at the kitchen table, pondering the aging body.

Earlier today, one of her children came barreling into the bathroom, where the Matron was recovering from a shower (recovering because the hot water didn't really work all that well -- more fodder).

Matron: "Hey! I'm naked. Just a warning."

Anonymous Child: " OH MY GOD DON'T MOVE I Am GETTING OUT OF HERE!"

The horror quite literally bounded off the walls and all parties were involved in projectile terror.

She knows it's normal for children of a certain age and gender to run screaming from any body part not visible on the beach. But still -- what about the owner of the offending body?

Now, your intrepid narrator is a wee thing -- she weighs in at the very low end of the scale. Yet. . . .

There's that tire around the belly.

Breasts? Formerly pronounced. Now saggy acorn bits with sponge texture (and much smaller than anything you would use to clean the sink).

When she was a Young Miss, the Matron was aglow and basked in the delights of the flesh. Now, she mostly tries to hide it with pretty candles and just the right degree of exhaustion.

Now, she looks at lines in the mirror. The sagging skin. Notices how 'not noticed' she is anymore.

And it's not fair to stay the same weight for 25 years and have a stomach bigger than your breasts!

Growing up is hard to do.

Lost but not Forgotten

Oh, faithful friends!

The Matron fell down a bit of a rabbit hole marked by her own doing. Erring on the side of rigor, her classes are heavy on the work-end for students. Because she is teaching MORE than full time this semester, taking on an extra class, and teaches writing intensive courses, yours truly finds herself with over ONE THOUSAND pieces of student work to evaluate this semester; she is currently in a cycle of about 300 of those.

Normally, this bleary task -- combined with the mind-numbing driving schedule the current play, head shots, auditions, Driver's Ed classes, debate, running club and tennis demand -- would not deter the intrepid Matron. She blogs through blizzards and lice. Papers, be damned!

But life's frenzy is coinciding with the Matronly existential crisis. She cannot decide what to do with her hair in the morning (and mascara? way too complex a decision) let alone a blog. So she took a little breather, more or less realizing one day at a time that she didn't find the time or topic to blog.

Still... . she can't quite give it up! So tonight is the toe dip back in the pond. Instead of dreaming up the perfect pithy post with a snappy closing and clear narrative? Well, she just said what's on her mind.

More of that tomorrow. But something. This blog, she is a-changin'

When Michael Phelps Gets Performance Anxiety

Here's what Suburban Correspondent said about the Matron signing on for NaBloPoMo:

Hello? You seem to post twice a day already! Your doing NaBloPoMo is like Michael Phelps joining the community swim team.

Why, thank you, honey. The Matron is flexing her biceps. She is buff, all that typing!

And underneath all that bluster and brawn? Your poor little Matron signed up--made a commitment--to post every darn day and instantly got NERVOUS! Instead of standing confidently on top of those 486 blog posts in 396 days, both buoyed and well-grounded by such verbosity, the Matron is feeling a little bit, well, wobbly. Imagine all those posts on top of another, like so many loose dominoes. Down, down, down goes the Matron.

So she's afraid NaBloPoMo will somehow render her silent. Cause her to forget about her blog. Eliminate Idea, all. Fell her, completely.

In honor of her unflagging pathology, her uncanny ability to uncover yet another neurosis--NaBloPoMoPhoBia--little known to the rest of humanity but plaguing the Matron like, well, Plague--in honor of this new Phobia and her incredible Neurotic Talent, the Matron will lift the veil on a few of her current companion anxieties.

• Rabies. This summer, brought two bats into the Matronly homestead. A man in northern Minnesota recently died of rabies; he didn't even know the bat he caught had bitten him until he started foaming at the mouth. Literally. Toss in two weeks ago, when the Matron stumbled across the tiniest little mouse, asleep in the house. Why, she got within a centimeter of that cuddly creature. It was a BAT. So the Matron has spent some time engaged in the following internal debate: "Should the whole household get rabies shots, just in case?" "Should Stryker get shots, just in case?" "What if (fill in name of loved one except for Satan's Familiar) gets bit and doesn't know it?"
  

• Squirrels. These creatures are rats with tails. Rats are not cute. The filthly scrub brush attached to the butt is not enough to render the rat that is a squirrel, cute. The Matron is certain that one of these greedy, malicious little monsters will one day not run away from her, but run up her pant leg. She's positive this will happen.

• Rabies + Squirrels

• Transportation, all sort, but with a technicolor focus on automobile, school bus and air plane.
  

• Transfats. Sigh. Her poor children! Picture the Matron in the bustling chain grocery store with her reading glasses perched upon her prim little nose, scanning every last delectable nummy treat they might get for the goddless chemical. Worse!!?? The Matron herself, indulging in Holiday Fete, might inadvertantly pass this toxic waste into her OWN PRECIOUS SELF. Ugh! She's shaking, just thinking about it.

• Head lice. Hang on--she's gotta go check her head again.
  

• Escalaters. The Matron gives her mother a win on this one because when the Matron was a Wee Bit of a Miss and scared that the end of the escalater would just grab her shoe and SUCK Wee Bit of a Miss right down with the rest of the disappearing stairway, well, when Wee Bit of a Miss asked her mother if this would really happen? Her mother said, yes. "I know someone who lost two children that way." To this day, the Matron grips tight and her gaze doesn't waver from the end game, that hop off the stair.
  

Happy November! NaBloPoMoPhoBia. Just in time for the flu season, which is sort of like the State Fair and a free shopping spree at Neiman Marcus for hypochondriacs. Not that she is one. . . .

Actual Conversation

The Matron spent another day combing hair (see The Lice Chronicles), cleaning upholstery, washing bedding (after attending a three hour workshop for her job) and contemplating, more less non-stop, the odd feeling on her own scalp -- a sensation that shifts and morphs and grows, sort of leaning into every spot that she THINKS about. Which is the whole darn head.

For new readers, let it be known that the Matron is a bona fide hypochondriac. The emergency room? Sort of like heaven. There is diagnostic equipment there.

Matron, at midnight, exhausted: "I am SO tired."

John, moving closer: "But aren't these bugs sort of an aphrodisiac?"

Matron: "Touch me and I divorce you."

John: "But doesn't trial and tribulation bring us closer together?"

Matron: "Not when it means touching the head of anyone else in this household."

John: "How about other body parts?"

You're Not the Boss of Me

Perhaps Merrick did not read his letter.

The Matron watched with no small degree of fondness while her youngest devoured a big bowl of ice cream at the kitchen table last night. He licked the bowl. She's sure lice fell off his head into the bowl, but that's another story. He rolled the spoon around in his mouth.

Then he put the spoon on the table and dashed off to play.

Matron: "Merrick, please put your bowl and spoon into the sink."

Merrick: "No! You'we not the boss of me!"

Matron: "Merrick, please put your bowl and spoon into the sink."

Merrick: "I TOLD YOU YOU'wE NOT THE BOSS OF ME" (remember, he's seven).

Matron: "Actually, I am. I am the boss of you. And you need to put the bowl and spoon into the sink."

Merrick, stopped dead in his tracks: "Weally? You'we the boss of me? Weally?"

Matron: "That's right. The parent is the boss. Like any good organization, underlings have input, but I'm the boss."

Clearly stunned by this revelation and contemplating something, Merrick slowly slugged back into the kitchen and dejectedly put the offending items into the sink. Then he fell into the couch with a serious look.

Ten studied minutes later.

Merrick: "Mom?"

Matron: "Yes?"

Merrick: "Is Minnesota pawt of Amewica? I thought I was a fwee man."

Two Current Issues with the Public Schools

First, Xcel Energy has designed the curriculum for Scarlett's sixth grade classroom. Scarlett came home with a huge package of Xcel Energy guidance for changing your showerhead and for worshipping all things huge corporation. Her homework? Understanding all things Xcel energy. This fusion of corporate America and public education bothers the Matron as much as Coke in the lunchroom.

Scarlett is required to basically become an Xcel Board Member in order to complete this week's school assignments. Truly -- home work is a box with XCEL ENERGY on it. Maybe the children will be defending a tremendous oil spill next.

The teacher seems relieved that there's no work involved for her.

The second?

Lice!

Ten out of twenty in Merrick's room. Guess who is under the bed in a panic with mayonaisse on her head?

The Lovely Lengthy Philosophical Treatise in the Works

 . . . has fallen to the wayside.

This beautiful boy?

Felled by the flu:  he is a limp, feverish, bundle of projectile vomiting.  The school returned him to his mother that way, a couple of hours early.

So instead of the rich, nuanced reflection on mortality that's in the hopper, the Matron has only a nod to what happens while we're pondering the meaning of life:  its details.  Which include sick nine-year old boys.   Yours truly must also note a pattern here.  The beginning or end of each semester, without fail, brings disaster.  

Here are some bona fide real life examples:  lice, appendicitis, flu, major psychological breakdown for a child, and strep throat.   These are inter-changeable and pretty much a guarantee. 

But doesn't he look sharp with that killer haircut?