Actual Conversation

Stryker: "I think I pretty much do believe in reincarnation."

Matron: "Yes?"

Stryker: "It sort of makes sense, like seeds turning into plants that rot and turn into soil. Right?"

Matron: "Well, I think so."

Stryker: "But the thing you turn into sort of depends on what you were. I mean, if you're a nutrient dense plant you're going to make good soil. If you're a sort of a runt week, your soil will be lame too."

Matron: "Makes sense."

Stryker: "I'm a little worried that I might reincarnate into somebody who sits around and watches TV all day. I have that in me."

Matron: "Yes, you do. But you also have lots of wonderful parts of yourself that you could cultivate: kindness, compassion, intelligence."

Stryker: "That's true. I could pick one good thing and start really focusing on that. Which do you think, Mom?"

Matron (oh no! let's not limit ourselves to ONE): "How about a combination of three or four. Let's see. . . intelligence, kindnes and compassion? Love, respect, intelligence and fortitude? You could be 90% love and divide the remaining 10% among two other qualities--

"Mom -- you're getting too enthusiastic."

Matron (reeled in): "Sorry."

Stryker: "I'm going to pick kindness to animals. Whenever I want to lay around and watch TV, I'll do something nice to a dog instead. Like pet them or give them a treat."

Matron: "That sounds perfect."

Stryker: "You know what's strange, Mom?"

Matron: "What?"

Stryker: "I feel a little bit better about the world, already."

So does she.

The Matron Needs a Conversation

Really! She wonders: how much screen time is too much?

Yesterday's off color blog post reflected the fierce Battle of Will that is Matron vs Stryker, specifically regarding screen time: iPod, cell phone, lap top and television, to be precise. He is a tiny bit engaged with Game but adores the art of Passive Entertainment.

Matron: "That's enough screens."

Stryker: "MOM! THERE IS NOTHING ELSE TO DO!"

Matron: "I'll play scrabble with you."

Stryker: "NO. I don't feel like playing board games."

Matron: "Read a book?"

Stryker: "You always suggest reading. Can't you think of anything else other than reading?"

Matron: "Bake cookies?"

Stryker: "Mom!"

And so on. But the 'so on' frequently spirals into Accusation and Assault, both sides.

In his defense, the child attends a math and science magnet school where he is an A and A + student. He has friends aplenty and Social Organizations like Little League and Computer Club. Turning the corner toward 13, he reads as well as the Matron and enjoys that, too. So there's good stuff.

But outside of that realm, all he cares about is Screen.

He's not alone. In his very fine (she's jealous but do check out his five factors) book, Boys Adrift, psychologist Leanord Sax posits that young men are not living up to their potential -- in part, video games are to blame. The Matron might see this more broadly as Screen and the passivity and inertia said sqaures inspire.

The group dropping like flies at the Matron's community college? Young men ages 18-24, although this academic duly notes poverty as an element here, as well. (Over 40% of the Matron's student experience poverty while in school)

But she is specificially worried about her firstborn, who is, like all eldest, is destined to be the great Battlefield of first attempts and new territories. Screen time!? How to nagivate with teens? Besides being friends with him on Facebook (she is!).

You're Welcome, Stryker

Being Scarlett's sibling has not been easy for Stryker-- he is quite comfortable in the epicenter of the family orbit (she's allowed to mix geography with astronomy because this is her unique world anyway) and hates all the hoopla surrounding his sister.

Stryker:  "You never do anything for me."

Matron (oh she was ready!):  "Remember when you decided to get serious about the yo-yo?  Who found a national yo-yo champion for you to study with?  When we found out about the tournament the day before, who dropped everything and spent the whole day at the Mall of America so you could win first place?  Remember when you were seven and an uncannily proficient reader?  Who started "The Boys Book Club" and then got that on the front page of the local paper?  Shall we continue?"

That Matron.  It's a good thing she had three children because imagine if that light hot Maternal Energy were focused just on one!

Stryker:  "Yeah but remember the day I had a terrible fever and was sick on the couch and you guys left me home alone?"  And he wells up.  Sigh

As both Truth and Counter to Scarlett, much ballyhoo has been made around Stryker's homework.  He's in the Science and Math Magnet and they put these 7th graders on that AP college track.  His teachers have nothing but praise.  His homework?  Comes first.  For the family.

Sunday night, Stryker mapped out plans for a huge History project, a 10 minute Power Point presentation on Nostrodamus that is half the trimester's grade.  If he did just so many minutes a night, he could finish the project on Thursday evening.  It's due Friday.  But the way he scheduled the work there was not ONE evening for error.

With that, he pushed save and was faced with a strange-looking Power Point file that he could open, but not edit.  Try as he might - and that child did -- he couldn't figure out how to continue. Did she mention that neither Stryker nor the Matron had ever even ventured into Power Point before this evening?  Day One and the schedule tottered, in peril.

Matron:  "Don't worry, honey.  I'll figure it out tomorrow while you're at school.  When you get home it will be ready to roll. Promise."

Stryker;  "Mom I am so worried."

She can hear you wringing your hands for her.

She emailed the file to Stryker's computer teacher, her work computer, and three technologically-inclined friends.    Then, just to be safe she sent it to the IT guy at her college.  Not that she's into overkill.

The next morning, she put a strained Stryker on the bus and found that her friends were at a loss.   Stryker managed to do something wrong enough that the file was unrecognizable.   The technologically inclined friends tried all kinds of magic to no avail.  The word 'loss' was bandied about.  

The computer teacher emailed:  "Rough break.  The history teacher is a hard-liner."

This problem consumed much of the Matron's morning.    And, the morning of a few IT state employees, two software junkies, and the guy down her office hallway.  The Matron herself went through several stages of denial, despair and desperation.  

With her final ounce of energy, she dragged her doomed self into the office of a  biologist, who, upon hearing dreadful dilemma said:  "Did you try opening Power Point and then clicking on "Open" in the upper left hand corner, re-opening the file WITH Power Point and then saving it?"

She did!  The file was saved!  The Matron wept at her colleague's feet and offered up the very firstborn whose psyche she was trying to save:  thank you!!

Even though barely a paper was graded and emails sat, unanswered and she had called in a BIG bunch of favors in order to occupy other people with her child's problem -- she did it!  Saved the day!  The minute she knew Stryker was on the bus, in a dramatic and detailed text message, she told him of her amazing feat.  Not to worry!   File saved!  Figured it out!  Mother swoops in!

Life's short.  Why not bask in the glow while you wait for the grateful, ardent reply?

Here's what she got.

"K.  Thanks."

At least he spelled one word out.

The Crotchety Old Man She's Raising

The Matron thought nobody could love this place more than she -- land of $3. designer blouses and boots. But it is also the land of cast-off electronics and general junk of legendary degree. Think shelf after shelf of silver widget, plastic transformer, bundle of wire and whatnot. There are legions of broken, archaic gaming systems.

Stryker can spend more time scrutinizing an indecipherable pile of electronics than the Matron can try on shoes! He loves this place. It is like date night for mother and son, except they instantly part ways.

The Matron sighed a little sigh on Monday, watching her guy root and route through screws and peer into the broken backs of 25 year old television sets. She just imagines the wall to wall stack of STUFF he will have in his own garage someday. Something about the step of his foot in that store, the way he critically examined and critiqued the goods (while stocking up) seemed more like a man pushing 80 than 13.

But Tuesday night's election result proved this for the Matron. She and Stryker were watching in the family room, alone. The results poured in! Vermont, projected for Obama! New Jersey, projected for Obama! Their very own Minnesota! Projected for The Man!

As that Electoral College kept getting higher, the Matronly hysteria climbed too. She sobbed into her hankie, unbelieving.

Stryker: "Mom! This is crazy. That's projected. Only 5% is in for Minnesota and it's projected? Like even 30% for Vermont and they're projecting? Who can even get excited until the votes are actually in. I totally don't understand all this about election night. Why are we even watching? We won't know who won until tomorrow morning, or maybe even a couple of days. Projecting? Come on. New Mexico, projecting? I can't believe you really believe Illinois will go for Obama when they're projecting. Why are you crying? We have NO IDEA who really won. I'd rather read. Look! Another projection with just 1%. This is absolutely craziness. Why are there election night parties? Why are some neighbors downstairs, just to watch the projecting people?"

When the Matron pointed out that this--projecting--has gone on since the beginning of time and that's just the way it works, please Dear God, sit back and enjoy this?

Stryker continued on, apparantly trying to ALSO talk himself backward to beginning of time when he could finally end an entire nation's Mass Delusion and Historic Mistake. He did not stop, not once. Not for a single minute Sanity Break.

"I mean, we don't know who won! I am not going to be happy about this, no way. Not until the numbers are in. Please. Do we even have to watch this? Now, why are Barack Obama and his whole family there, pretending that they won!? Look at those thousands of people. They have no idea what's really happening. This is complete craziness. I don't understand you people. Not a bit."

And just to insure that he gets to go through his narrative every year until he actually IS the 80 year old he acts like?

Al Franken and Norm Coleman, the Minnesota Senate candidates are under 500 points and one half a percentage point apart, about to begin a mandatory recount.

Stryker: "SEE!! I told you! I'll be happy in January, like two days after Obama's sworn in, just to be safe."

Lovely, sweetheart. Why does your mother think you'll be telling her all about it, too?

Dear Stryker

Your mother apologizes for this morning's crabby bad start. This 6 am wake-up call is new for her, too. She's not yet accustomed to this new kind of morning -- still dark, nobody else awake, just the two of you whispering through a sleeping house.

Every morning at 6:10 am, she puts on her running gear. Walking downstairs, she can hear you eating breakfast, alone. The spoon and bowl click. You slurp a little, sweetie. The sounds amplify in the dim house, just like that crisp click click of dog toenails.

She sees that solo morning breakfast as a metaphor for your current journey -- off into the great morass of junior high, attending a school where you have ZERO friends to see you through. Not only are you alone there, you haven't caught many other breaks, what with living across town and being the first one on the bus and last one off to log in a 50 minute ride. Then there's algebra! And all the new parental focus on homework, the crackdown on screen time, the near elimination of games.

You are all full of want: laptop, new speakers, Wi, X Box, private television and a media room to put said desired equipment. You know that none of those things are in your immediate future, but still, you hope. To that end, you have requested gainful employment -- a job. But when you're 12, not only are jobs hard to come by, but largely illegal.

You have a permanent 5 o'clock shadow on your upper lip.

You're not quite at home, anywhere. Not in your imperfect bedroom, with all its pedestrian technological bent; not in the school of 700 where you recognize only 3 kids by name; not on the bus for an hour--no friends there (yet) either. And certainly not in your body and mind, both in transition between being a kid and being a teen. That media room you need tomorrow? Well, that's probably something to aim for in your first house, post-college (um. . medical school?).

Comparing your situation--stark, in your view--to your sister's recent success and buoyant mood doesn't help, she knows. She wishes you didn't have to listen to inappropriate Rent songs about sex, either. Did you notice this? When someone asks the Matron how her "little star is doing" she says, "Why Stryker's doing great" and then goes into explanation. She skips the other one.

She's SO proud of you for not complaining. Sure, you describe your current situation and even unhappiness, but do so like an adult, facing the facts. She's proud of your dedication to homework and the ease with which you took on new challenges.

It really doesn't matter that you couldn't find the Stephen King book today. The Stand was one of your mother's favorite books as a Young Miss, and she's tickled pink you're taking it on at twelve. She's sorry she was angry that you weren't 100% prepared--like you have been every day so far.

So she scolded you and then rolled her eyes and nearly imploded when she realized you had forgotten your lunch too! Now, she knew she had packed it and left it on the counter, but suddenly, everything was all your fault.

Later, when she found The Stand on the table by the parental bed, she remembered why it was there. Blue and lonely on Saturday night, you'd asked to sleep with your parents. Just once, again.

Sometimes she forgets, sweetie, that even though you're nearly as tall as she is, in the scheme of things--you're still not just her baby, but a baby. And 12 was raw and vulnerable when she stood in those shoes. The world seemed endless and utterly unknowable.

So she's sorry she was crabby. In her heart, you're new again. She's kissing each perfect finger, smelling those sweat soapy toes. Loving you just like she did back then, when every last thing you did was adorable, perfect--even when you aren't (and she isn't) now. That's how she's going to approach 12.

More from the Boy

Stryker: "Why are you picking us up early from school, Mom?"

Me: "Because I was right here, running errands and didn't want to hang out and kill 20 minutes when I'm so behind and so stressed that I feel like either crying, screaming or throwing up."

Stryker: "HA! My master plan is finally working!"