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!

Prehistoric Matron

The Matron LOVES her Gender and Women Studies class! In fact, the Matron LOVES the entire GWS department -- because she is the only person in it! Yes, yours truly gets to play Department Czar. Good times. What's not to love about Total Control (okay, okay, within institutional guidelines), her favorite state of being.

Most of all, she loves her students. This class is, coincidentally or not, entirely female. They are mostly young -- certainly, all younger than she is. With just 20, she can do more than memorize names but actually know people. Amazing, all around.

Just two weeks in, the students are lapping it all up: feminist theory, Marxism, post-structuralism, all drawn in introductory, broad Matronly strokes designed for the eager but uninitiated. Wonderful. All is good. There is much discussion of 'micropolitics' and how those everyday exchanges regarding gender, sexual preference, class and race are related to and help create larger social and economic processes and ideologies. Perfect attendance and nobody bolts for the door the second the class leaves.

Today, the discussion turned toward identity politics.

Matron (note the careful use of 'in part' which is a handy phrase in case you forget something or get it partly right): "Identity politics, in part, grew out of the political movements of the 1960s and early 70s. Political, economic and social change was changed fueled by activists' identification with a certain group of people: African-American and to a less visible and less applauded extent all other groups of non-white people, female, workers, etc. This is a generalization, but whereas we see a lot of political fervor today about the economy, in the sixties there was political fervor over identity and the rights of people defined by certain identities."

Silence.

Student raises hand: "Do you mean the NINETEEN sixties or an earlier century?"

Here, picture the Matron with raised eyebrows, lecture paused.

Matron: "Of course, the 1960s. Everyone here is familiar with the political upheavals and social transformation of the sixties and early seventies, right?"

Silence.

Matron, who is a big believer in cutting to the chase in the classroom: "Who here has never ever heard of an era called 'the sixties' and the political changes that happened then?"

Every hand shoots up.

Guess who is constructing a history lesson about waaaaaaaaaaaay back when in the last century and feeling like the dinosaur who belongs there.

Last of the Bunch

As of 1:02 a.m. on Saturday, August 27, the Matron has two teenagers in the house.

He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN) is well into that tumultuous decade -- he will, in fact, soon begin the art of Driver's Education. Be still, Matronly heart! She won't indulge in driving jokes as she's pretty sure you've heard them all and, like her, been taken aback on the freeway when noticing that the driver beside her appears to be, uh, ten.

HWCBN also has gainful employment. He is building computer networks, web sites, and actual computers after resourcefully posting an ad in a neighborhood online site. That boy has been busy! He also spent a month in Chicago and officially towers above his mother. College? Already a topic of conversation and a light on the horizon. Three years go fast in mother years (sorta like dog years only twice as speedy).

Scarlett is the new teenager. She's been remarkable since she was 8 and landed her first show. This is the child with an agent, big ticket theater credentials and head shots. And her own blog. Having been graced with that great female gift, Uterine Tracking Device (UTD), she can locate any lost sock, shoe, toy, ball or book in the house -- just like her mother. Her father, the Official Laundry Man of the household, can no longer distinguish between his daughter's clothes and his wife's.

John holding up pair of black stretch pants: "You? Scar? How can you tell?"

Matron: "My pants aren't quite so ornamental. Notice the glittery stars up and down the leg?"

John: "Uh, no."

Honey, that's because you are a MAN.

But with all this grown up fuss -- the newly minted teenager daughter just back from New York and the eldest of the pack headed out daily for his job -- somebody got lost in the Big Kid Shuffle.

Merrick: "I'm bowed."

He is eight. His brother is wiring invisible elements into something that will someday be called a hard drive and his sister is at rehearsal for the next play. Even if they were home, they are slowly fading into something elusive: more thoughtful, quieter people who resemble adults more than children. His world is still being 'security' for his dogs (Merrick looks good wearing a badge and a Nerf gun while walking Satan's Familiar) and climbing halfway up the tree.

So abandoned -- and in ways he cannot yet appreciate but are just emerging -- Merrick has taken to hanging around his mother more. Today, he pined in her office as she tried to type out comments on student work.

Merrick: "SIGH."

He languished. Moaned. Stared pitifully out the window.

Merrick: "Mom? Do you have time to take me to the cownew stowe and buy a suckew?"

Matron: "Hmmmm. . . . I'm working."

This time the sigh was genuine and it pierced her concentration. And heart. What's 15 minutes in mama years?

Not only did she take him to the corner store, she did the UNHEARD of and drove the three blocks, letting Merrick sit for the first time in: the front seat. Yes! She threw the air bag warnings to the wind for three two mile an hour blocks and let her baby get a taste -- a tiny taste -- of big kid life. He loved it.

They chatted about the different view, the texture of the seat, the way the window worked. They commented on the lollipop options or lack-there-of and settled on lemon drops. Landscape changes in the neighbor's yard were duly noted.

Best three blocks this mama has had in a long, long time. She wishes those fifteen minutes really felt like years. Just flying.

The Final Stop

Let's turn the last corner on the Matronly ride through her defects and shortcomings. Mind you, this is not self-flagellation. The human condition = shortcomings, flaws. And certainly, three little blog posts aren't enough to romp through all of the Matron's.

But she's ready to move onto brighter things. Fickle that way. Sigh . . .another shortcoming.

The last hurrah here is gluttony.

Gluttony. Not a word heard much these days.

Friend to Matron: "How are you?"

Matron: "Suffering! I just feel like such a glutton."

And she would be meaning shoes, not donuts.

Shoes or books, jeans, mugs, earrings, rings, purses, scarves, vitamins, socks, tights, dog collars, combs or anything else that shines at a certain moment: BUY ME.

Because gluttony is not limited to food and drink. No, gluttony includes excessive consumption of 'wealth items.' (thanks wikipedia -- but don't tell her students that she used a less than stellar source).

Now, she wonders what exactly constitutes a 'wealth item'? And what is excessive consumption? You all know what gluttony means: too much. When that too much is ingested, the body -- without moral compass or discernment -- knows. Ugh. Too full, too fat, too floppy, too wired, too tipsy or just, well, stuffed.

But stuff is another matter entirely. How many jackets are enough? (remember this is Minnesota). Of course, a nice orange fleece that's sort of dressy will look lovely for work -- and it's SO unique. She has nothing like it. Then what about running out the door? That lovely piece is eggshell blue but also looks toasty warm; what an unusual combination! Basic black? Must have. Gray hoodie? Who in America doesn't own one?

Just yesterday, the Matron stood at her favorite thrift store (ValuThrift) and contemplated a brand new designer sweater set, white with faux pearls and very pretty, on sale for the whopping price of $4.97 -- something that probably soars close to $70 in the store. A deal! A steal! Who wouldn't take it! Now, the Matron normally DOES buy with this mind: "How much am I saving? What a steal!"

Less frequently does she ask herself if she really needs it.

But this time, she did. Her mind limped over the clothes rack. How many sweaters exactly like this one but just a different color? A quick scan popped up a pink, three blue, two black, one gray, one green, one rose with flowers, a cream with red embroidery, and a silver.

So the real question was: does she need one more color of the nearly exact same sweater (we're talking your basic 1950s button up the front, carry along for if you're cold).

It nearly KILLED her to pass up another opportunity to flaunt a good deal in front of anyone who would listen, but pass, she did. But the agony of it all -- the desire! the decision! the drama! -- made her realize just how connected she is to STUFF.

Cheap stuff, thrift stuff, organic stuff, fair trade stuff, locally grown and animal-cruelty free stuff? Sure. But all the progressive politics in the world can --and now, often do -- result in more stuff, stuff, stuff.

Gluttony. Ah, gluttony, she says with a smile, happy for the choice of pajamas and a blue or red popcorn bowl. She's not sure if that's something one gives up or is an essential part of middle-class America.

And the Fun Continues

Don't you wish you had some wine at this party?

For those new to the week, the Matron is up to her eyeballs in introspection. Be very, very glad that you do not live with her.

Yesterday, the Matron acknowledged that she has no intentions of relinquishing Magical Thinking, even though 'vainglory,' as such pleasant ruminations were known in the fourth century, is possibly a deadly sin.

Wait. Can a sin be deadly? Think about that for a minute. You sin, you die? Hmmm . . .seems like you don't sin and you die, too. So she proposes the Seven Deadly Virtues. That's not cynicism, folks. That's living in reality.

Because she would rather spend her time embodying deadly virtues than deadly sins, the Matron took a good hard look at her most tenacious, unrelenting unpleasant tendency: envy.

Friend: "I lost weight! I'd kill my toddler for her cookie, but I'm back to a size 6."

Matron: "You look great!" * inside -- Hey! I wanna lose weight too, loser (even though yours

truly does not actually NEED to lose weight, she still feels envy). Pathetic.

*~*~

Neighbor: "How do you like our new car?"

Matron: "It's great!" * inside -- how she HATES the van with the peace signs and 150 thousand miles with its clumpy rods and clanks. Why can't SHE have a new car?

*~*~*~

Parent: "Little Angel Boo just won a scholarship and placed second in state in dance, football and speech!"

Matron: "Oh that's so great!" * inside -- oh GOD her children are going to be utter failures . . .why can't one of them place somewhere, in something?

~*~*~

Now, please. Don't misread this as a pity fest, starring yours truly. She has a beautiful, lucky life, even and perhaps especially with its problems. She knows that. Neither is this hyperbole or an unduly harsh self-examination. The Matron, with her lovely life, is often jealous. Period. This is a fact and on that level, neither necessarily good nor bad.

But this habit, as of late, is making her unhappy.

It is unpleasant and unsatisfying to want. Wanting what other people have -- especially not even knowing you want it until someone else has it -- is not only unsatisfying but isolating. Even though part of you celebrates (yay Angel Boo!) another, hidden and lonely part, festers. It doesn't matter if the festering mess is a small bit, easily brushed up after some self-recrimination - it still exists.

Got more money, more publications, more children, more blog readers, more professional prestige, more good karma, more land, more dogs, more shoes (gasp!), more sleep, more confidence, more muscle than the Matron? She is envious.

For the Matron, envy is tied to ambition and desire -- the dreams she has of being 'just so.' This 'just so,' at least the dream, includes a lot of things which currently do not define her. Still, she aspires and as she ages those aspirations are changing from things quite material in nature to states of being and acceptance.

One of those aspirations is to shed some of the longing, release the tendency toward wanting what isn't hers, to stop comparing herself (favorably or unfavorably) to others.

Because really? The thing she tells her children is true: there is no comparison. Look in the mirror at what you were given. And that's really all there is, and even this face in the mirror exists just for the briefest snap in time.

Don't Read This Book

That is, unless you want to be thrust into the introspective state the Matron is currently occupying.

She is reading The Spirituality of Imperfection, by Ernest Kurtz and Katherine Ketcham (and if it wasn't 11:40 pm, she'd add a pretty picture of the cover -- hopefully words will suffice).

This is one of the most though-provoking books she has read in a long, long time. It is both uplifting and sobering. Just like life.

Yours truly is currently traipsing through a section on fourth century monk Evagrius Ponticus. She dares anyone to add Evagrius to their list of potential baby names. Anyway, long before it became stylish, Evagrius thought to spoil all fun by creating the list that preceded -- and perhaps inspired -- the seven deadly sins. He detailed these sins not as 'sins' of action, but as wrong ways of seeing and being in the world, loosely collected under the master title of "logismos." Logismos "involves choosing to see the bad -- bad in the sense of unreal, not fitting reality. Old Evagrius was a little more complex than outlining Bad Things Not to Do but instead painted an entire erroneous reality, one based on self-centered longing and flagellation.

His "traps of thinking"?

Gluttony

Fornication (as in obsession with body parts not love, love between a couple)

Avarice

Envy

Anger

Acedia (listlessness)

Vainglory ("daydreaming about one's magnificence and imagined glory")

Pride

This list gave the Matron pause. Because she herself is writ large within it.

Vainglory? Why, one of the Matron's favorite activities is daydreaming and boy, oh boy, is she magnificent and glorious in those fantasies. Indeed, she cultivates these, exercises by them, indulges in little doses of unreality by imagining herself Famous, Rich, and Cultivated. It does not escape her that Fame is one of Merrick's most valued aspirations.

Merrick: "Mom? If I buy a winning lottery ticket will I be famous?"

Matron: "Not the dollar kind."

Merrick: "Oh. How can I get famous? Will it happen quick?"

Ah, what a good little American she's raising. Yet not only does she share Merrick's peephole into the world of plentiful attention, she actively daydreams about it. Only her fame isn't the Entertainment Tonight kind.

Instead, one of the Matron's fondest daydreams? She's at Whole Foods, at the checkout line. For some archaic reason, she writes a check or the cashier actually looks at the name on her card.

Cashier (instantly humbled and awed): "Are you Mxx Matron, the writer?"

Matron (feigning same humility): "Yes."

Cashier: the following is too long for dialogue as a cascade of accolades and admirations follow, wherein the Matron's work is noted as superb and of course, the cashier's favorite.

Sigh. All it takes is one person to make her day.

But the Matron has long been a fan of Magical Thinking, her name for this pleasure. While she's once again taking herself in hand -- or at least observing her actions --in regard to the rest of Evagrius' list, she can't help but wonder: what harm?

For the time being, she plans to stick with the Magical Thinking and maybe call it Creative Visualization (thank you, Shakti Gawain) so then it will be all right.

But envy? Another, less frivolous story. Coming tomorrow in the week of introspection.

Monday, Meditation

Lovely Ladies (and man -- hello neighbor!).

Thank you for your kind words last week (Jan -- see message to you in comments).

After some respite and deep tissue digging, the Matron has found strength anew. That deep tissue digging meant poking through those psychological nooks and crannies. And the Matron was humbled by what she found there.

Seriously.

In all honesty, the Matron has been in a contemplative phase. Introspective. Quieter than normal. Happy to not be the center of attention (trust her, that phase would be new indeed). Part of her blogging ennui was reticence. It's easy to whip out funny -- and mostly true, thank you life -- stories about children, dogs, and daily dramas, but more difficult to hit the mark when the mark feels, well, more personal.

Welcome to the week of introspection. She plans to exorcise a few demons.