What Women Want

Ah, Sigmund.

That man has a long shadow; the question now haunts politicians.  It appears that Democrats and Republicans are battling for the all-important female vote.  Of course, like women weren't important before but  . . .

The Matron is enjoying this show, all these men declaring their political and personal devotion to the women--particularly the mothers-- of America, and strutting out their own women folk as evidence.   The Matron particularly loved when Ann Romney forgot to take the silver spoon out of her mouth before mentioning her lean years of living off stock.  It's okay, Ann.  Everyone talks with their mouth full from time to time.

Of course there's all the hoopla about working mothers.  All human beings who have a brain and a mother already know that all mothers work.  Some just have two or three jobs, and one pays currency that can be banked and exchanged; the other pays currency that fuels the 3 am feedings or the grim visit to a principal's office or  . . . well, the very minute you may be reading this.

It occurs to the Matron to ask, as she often does:  "how did this question come to be?"  Why is the conversation regarding women framed in terms of who works more?  Which woman is more valuable, which suffers the most, which do we worship, which has cultural freight.  

Really.  Is this the debate that women would have started?   No, the Matron thinks that women, were we to be framing the cultural conversation about women (because we're not), we wouldn't be asking somewhat pointless, unanswerable questions but making demands.

What do women want?

A world in which no woman aspires to be a human Barbie and if she did, she wouldn't be such a super big hit.

Equity in public restrooms.  Can't some architect or city planner or whatever just add a few toilets?  Is that really so difficult?

Less rape.  Wait -- we're dreaming!  NO RAPE.

A world in which this would be met with global outrage.  Instead, nobody's paying attention.

To not continue, in every culture and country of the world, to shoulder a significantly larger portion of household responsibilities related to children, cleaning, cooking, shopping, laundry.  Every culture and country.   Regardless of other employment status.

Reproductive responsibilities--from birth control to child care --  to be equally shared between men and women, and the understanding that 'reproduction' is not only a female function.

Widespread celebration of hair, wherever it grows.

 The word 'strident' removed from the English language.

The phrase 'those extra ten pounds' to follow 'strident' into history's dim corners.  Let's add the ability to self-assess how one's ass looks without actually looking at said behind . . . or another woman's.

How about a world in which our daughters marvel at the incomprehensible idea that women once died from illegal abortions, couldn't vote, were paid less for the same work as men, and understood sexual harassment to be-- in some form subtle or not -- simply part of the terrain.  


Wait.

A problem arises as the Matron types.  She realizes that this is a futile endeavor.  You see, she always writes for the nice swift ending -- a snazzy line or a soft spot, just to really bring it all home for the reader.  

But this list -- what women want?  No pithy ending in sight.

From the Mouths of Men

Regular readers know that the Matron suffers from a serious psychological 'condition':  Incurable Clutter Brain Suck.   She of this delicate condition resides in a house with a MAN, a teenage MAN-in-the-making, a teenage girl, a nine-year old boy, two dogs and a hamster.   These creatures do not share her affliction.  Indeed, they aggravate it.

Can she ask:  who do you think, during those exhausting years of early childhood when children outgrew clothes every ten seconds, sorted and cleaned and organized every drawer?  Who has spent hours gutting bedrooms once or a twice a year, switching out toys broken or discarded, the  chewed up shoes, the outgrown clothing, digging under beds, in each drawer crevice, shaking out rugs and overhauling closets, washing walls and swiping windows, scraping the gum and scouring the stale food found in the far corners?  Dusted and stacked the music, the books, the shoes, the sports gear, clothing, school supplies and holiday decor?

Got the picture?

Last weekend, when He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN) vacated his bedroom for a weekend away, John decided to clean it!  This made the Matron happy.  Very.

Matron:  "Great!"

John:  "No -- I mean really CLEAN the room.  While he's gone.  Like sort all the drawers, organize stuff, wash the walls, vacuum under the bed."

He went on at some length, explaining 'cleaning' to the Matron.  Then looked at her expectantly.

Matron:  "Great!"

That man spent two days up to his adorable elbows in HWCBN's muck -- a cesspool that, outside the rudimentary teenage swipe, had not been tidied, dusted or otherwise cleaned in over a year.  He sorted clothing, washed windows, stacked and dusted CDs.  He went through every single inch of that bedroom.  It was beautiful.

Accompanied by . . . .

"Wow.  Can you believe how dirty this?  Come here -- look at this layer of dust!"
"Mary, this is the dirtiest room the house has ever had."
"Oh my God.   Did you know he had a glass of milk on that dresser?  How long?"
"I think the plant can't be saved."
"But really, this is the worst room anyone has ever cleaned."
"No -- just look.  Nothing has ever been this bad."
"Oh my GOD.  There are spiders!"
"No really -- this is the worst it's ever been.  Nobody has ever cleaned a room this bad."

In the three weeks leading up to this edifying discourse, the Matron had gutted the basement laundry room, cleaned and organized three large closets (including washing walls), and by herself moved semi-permanent radiator fixtures in order to effectively vacuum and mop behind radiators in the three rooms she cleaned from head to toe -- on top of the regular stuff.

Matron:  " I wouldn't say the WORST.  No, I definitely wouldn't say it was the WORST I've ever seen.  Bad, yes.  But not the worst."

And so the games began.

Now, the Matron knew what her husband -- beloved, even -- wanted to hear:  yes, YOU are cleaning the worst room ever in the history of this house and probably the history of Humanity and this should totally get two million views on youtube.

She could not say it.

But she did nod and smile for the next 48 hours as John provided evidence and verbal documentation of his every move:  each speck of dust, that little corner, the pile of discarded clothes.

John:  "Look at this!  Can you believe it?  This is the worst .  I mean, can't you see that this is the worst room ever?"

The Matron smiled and nodded until, not long before the Humanity's Worst Room was restored, she found herself on her belly, mopping underneath a bed.  She was just finishing dusting, sweeping and mopping the three bedrooms, bathroom and hallway on the second floor.   All done without explanatory narrative.

Mopping under the bed was messy!  The Matron sneezed just as John was walking by.  Probably looking for his Super Hero Cleaning Cape.

John:  "Bless you!"

Matron:  "It's so dusty under here.  Just what my dust mite allergy needs."

And that man paused on the gleaming freshly washed wooden floors, espresso in hand, to gaze upon his wife on her belly mopping under the bed and said, as God-Buddha-Allah-Oprah-Universe is her witness:

"You're lucky that you didn't have to do Stryker's room."

Lucky.

The Matron found herself uncharacteristically speechless.   Lucky was not the first word that came to her mind later.

But -- the worst room in the history of households is now in order.  That Super Hero Cleaning Cape?  Clogging certain airways.

Pagan Bunny, Stranger Danger and Crowbars

This post could only be about Merrick. . . . and because the Matron has not had a single blogging second since last Thursday, this narrative is an Easter tale.

As Easter approached, Merrick expressed no small degree of concern about the very real (to him) possibility that a GIANT BUNNY --whose very existence held sufficient horror -- hops the earth in one night and "bweaks into kids' houses."

Poor Matron!   She didn't want to destroy his belief in Magic!  Mystery!  The very stuff of childhood.  Neither did she want to fuel a fantasy that involved home invasion.   She tip-toed down a middle ground, full of discourse on how Santa (because Merrick implicated him too in the break-in situation facing the world's children) and the Easter Bunny were a benevolent sort, bent only on spreading kindness and love.  Entering and Magic isn't the same as Breaking and Entering.

Then a new twist emerged:  the narrative wasn't just the bunny break-in ahead but Belief  itself

Merrick:  "The Eastaw Bunny is a stranger.  Bweaking in."  PAUSE while significant look at mother.  "and I know there is no Easter Bunny or Santa.  I know it."    Then the kicker:  "Don't lie to me."

Ah, the Matron was ready for this.  She knew full well that her little guy still sort of believed and fully wanted to believe -- just not the chain-saw hauling, bunny- but he wanted to believe.  So she told him the same story that worked so well with Scarlett and Stryker, the story that extended their faith another year, maybe two.  She told him this story with confidence.

Matron:  "The Easter Bunny and Santa are real but they're not what you think.  Santa's not a man in a red suit who travels the earth in a sled but he IS real because all the adults in the world make him real.  He's a spirit.  Same with the Easter Bunny.  S/he is real, just not in the way that you think."

Done!  Time to move onto other topics.  Life after death? Mama has a good story for that one, too, honey.

But.

Merrick:  "I KNEW IT!  The Easter bunny isn't the BUNNY breaking into ouw houses but the strange MEN that pretend they are the bunny!"

In short, Merrick was convinced --and the Matron's story sealed this -- that strange men broke into houses on Easter and Christmas, alternately stealing and delivering.  He's foggy on that.  But he's absolutely certain that evil is being done on those two nights, evil in the shape of men who 'travel the earth' and 'make the Easter bunny real' by breaking into people's houses.

No amount of lies, truth, pleading and change-of-topic could dissuade him.    His main concern at the end of the maternal consultation?  A) Finding a crowbar to sleep with  and B) setting up a video camera to capture the deed and alert the world to the terror.

Thank God-Universe-Oprah-Easter Bunny-Santa-Universe-Buddha-Allah, that the Matron was able to wrench herself away from the drama by claiming dire need for an emergency trip to the grocery store.  In reality, she hadn't yet finished her own bunny hopping.  The irony--and probably mistake --  of purchasing more peeps and chocolate for the very thing that terrorized her child was not lost on her.

She did it anyway.  Hey, she needed that chocolate bunny.

Later that night, when she tucked in her cherub the Matron understood her problem to be over.  He was serene.  Assured.  Really truly, Merrick didn't seem frightened.  Yes, he had his baseball bat, drum sticks, Nerf gun, air soft rifle and hammer handy.    Not much different from a normal night with this child.

Merrick:  "I'm okay Mom.  Really.  I don't think the bad guy will break in and pretend to be the bunny."

Matron:  "I'm so glad, sweetie.  Tomorrow will be a lovely, Celebrate-Spring sort of day.  I promise."

Merrick:  "Me too."

And when the poor, unsuspecting Matron went downstairs -- where she hadn't been for a good couple of hours -- she understood why her son went to sleep confident and secure, safe from those home invasion.

The entire first floor was duct-taped shut.  Duct tape crossed all the windows, up and down, and across.  Duct tape on the front door as high as a third-grader and a chair could reach.  Duct tape across the dog door.  Duct tape on each porch window, a meticulous web with bells attached (emergency alert, she's certain).

And the fake, scary, strange men pretending to be the Easter Bunny?  They thoughtfully left three Easter baskets on the far edge of the back yard, right by the alley, far away from the actual house.

Merrick:  "That'll teach 'em."

Life by Poetry

This is one of the Matron's all-time favorite poems:  another guide to life.

The Five Day Rain

The washing hanging from the lemon tree

in the rain

and the grass long and coarse.

Sequence broken, tension

of sunlight broken.

                               So light a rain

fine shreds

pending above the rigid leaves.

Wear scarlet!  Tear the green lemons

off the tree!            I don't want

to forget who I am, what has burned in me

and hang limp and clean, an empty dress ----

Denise Levertov

Everything You Need to Know

Toss out the parenting books, friends.  Let's give the Matronly ruminations quasi-religious texture:  Four Pillars of Parenting.

~*~*~*~

Humility:   Acknowledge your place in history -- fireflies, we flame and expire.   The nanosecond of eternity in between is what matters.  Make yours count.  Remember, that in many ways it doesn't. Sometimes lessons we think are for our children are really ours, especially the ones we resist.  Someone else has a better answer, idea, or philosophy.  Except, of course, if you are the Matron because as this post would indicate, she alone posses Supreme Wisdom (bestowed by Oprah).  Listen.  Whatever genius or grace you possess burns brighter elsewhere.  Keep looking in that direction.

Memory:   What terrible urgency to be eight years old!   Secrets flicker in every adult conversation or set brow:  what do they know that I can't yet?   Go back to the thrill of not knowing and the fear that someday, you will.  The sigh and cast of eye, the frown or indifference tossed (casually, perhaps) toward a child settle in as history -- evidence of how the world works.  Remember the first time you fully felt the reality of your own death:   distant, impossible, annihilating-- fear narrowed the world to one primal cry for mercy.   Emotion and philosophy, not time, mark childhood.  Pick an age--any of them or all --  and consider the unspeakable universe that was your psyche then.  How slim a percentage, really, of thoughts and feelings went beyond the timbre of your skin toward another?

Kindness:  Carry memory with you at all times.  That small child at the core of your history finds her/his counterpart in the child before you, now.  This is not being weighed down by the past or pretending everyone is the same as you were:  it is exactly the opposite.  Memory used artfully -- held and rolled about, examined-- lets us address the singular, inarticulate geography of a child- parts of the self already locked and sealed, other undeveloped, fertile or raw.   That's where you aim, that pulsing center.  Who among us would knowingly do damage?   Sometimes we so indeed engage just with the person we see during a scolding or a cuddle or a simple lunch, but sometimes (more often than not?)  the experience we're creating is received and understood somewhere else, foreign and inaccessible.

Imagination:   Here is the bridge between memory and kindness, between what appears to be real and what is not.   This is the space where we understand another, and the space where we create the future first.  Paint a world replete with possibility and joy as you define these; show this world and its malleability to your child.  Memory, kindness, and humility stretch the corners of imagination, not as limits, but possibility.   Imagine your day-to-day life with your child as informed by memory, kindness and humility, and it can be.  Purpose is a imagination's transient partner.  It's pleasant to dream and difficult to manifest.  But history and future are nothing but imaginary spaces made official.  Neither exists in the present moment and are perhaps the best examples of our collective imagination.   Employ the power of that kind of creation--constructing entire realities that may or may not exist -  in your own life and teach that power to your child.


~*~*~*~

Well.  Now that she has avoided much, much work and many, many student papers AND pronounced something "The Four Pillars," she can safely proclaim this a successful evening.  Plus, honestly?  The above is  pretty much actually everything she believes.  At the moment.

She Has Other Children, But . . .

Teenagers do not like it when the parents of their friends stop saying 'hello' and jump right in with:

"I'm so glad you finally stopped playing so much Call of Duty!  Your mom was really worried about the time you were spending on that game!"

Or

"Did those tap shoes make it the dance on time?  I can't believe your mother went to seven thrift stores because the new shoes didn't arrive!  She is SO funny.  Did she really whack that other mother with a tap shoe or was that a joke for the blog?"

Merrick, on the other hand, thinks his presence on a blog makes him famous and the thin stream of steady, loyal readers here (bless you and the check is finally in the mail) are the reason.  The blog, and his occasional big youtube hit.

Thus, one more Merrick story.

Thanks to Michele Obama and general anti-obesity school crusades, the tiny teeny toothpick Merrick has developed an inordinate fear of contracting diabetes.  This fear manifests itself in the following ways:

• Constant steady stream of questions and concerns regarding diabetes
• Cookies, candy, cake and anything sweet engender an uncomfortable combination of Desire and Terror
• Constant steady stream of questions and concerns regrading diabetes
• New-found zeal for apples and carrots, believing that three apples and a carrot counterbalance any processed sugar
• A calculated fear-based approach to eating as food now holds the LETHAL possibility of diabetes
• Constant steady stream of questions and concerns regarding diabetes
• Intense interest in genetics and medical histories for generations of deceased family members who may POSSIBLY HAVE DIED from diabetes

The Matron is weary -- completely spent, actually -- of medical discourse.  She is afraid to offer a piece of thinly buttered toast for breakfast, as this initiates a long convoluted exchange regarding the potential of this particular piece of toast to tip the diabetes scale.

Merrick:  "Can this give me diabetes?"

Matron:  "No.  Toast is a whole.  No sugar."

Merrick:  "Is there sugaw in buttew?  Did you put too much buttew on this?  Does buttew make you fat?  Can I eat a gwape?   That has sugaw.   Is thewe a bad sugaw in milk?"

Whereupon the Matron has been attempting simple but honest and thorough answers:  she is happy Merrick cares about his health, she is aware that 'caring' has crossed a line to obsession, and she appreciates that her little guy is genuinely scared about the evil monster Diabetes lurking in his Lucky Charms.

But she will also admit to some Topic Fatigue on the subject of diabetes -- which also extends to each dog and his chance of also succumbing to the plague.

Today in the car, she heard this from the lone occupant in the backseat.

Merrick:   "Does watching TV cause diabetes?"

Every cell in the Matronly body lights up.   If left to his own devices, this child would plug a television into his navel for ease of access.  Everyday is a negotiation between how much TV he is allowed to watch and how much TV he plans to watch.  TV, TV, TV.  

But the Matron - - sensitive, attuned parent -- is well aware of Merrick's delicate condition.  One wrong word strikes terror.  He is afraid of peanut butter, waffles, and chocolate chips.   Instead of playing, he is calculating his genetic predisposition to disease.  More than anything, the Matron wants to reinforce Reason and Common Sense.  Moderation.  She does not want her child to live in fear.

Merrick:  "Mom?  Did you heaw me?   Does watching TV cause diabetes?"

Matron:  "YES!  Why yes it DOES!"

Sorry, Dr. Spock.

Never Live Through Your Children

Some small children -- say, third-graders -- bring cuddly stuffed animals to their first sweet, tentative sleepovers. They bring books! Bunnies, blankets or special soft pillows and blankets.

Merrick? Brings gas masks.

That's right -- slide in by your best buddy and hunker down for forty winks, safe and secure in your WWII style sleepwear! Bunnies and blankets? Why, they make excellent incineration material. And just to make that bed a special soft place, arm yourself well with various Nerf and Air Soft guns.

Then, there is Merrick in an upscale Minnesota grocery store. It is 9 pm, an hour in which most children are home hugging their bunnies and blankets, instead of on the road, buying donuts. Long story.

The important part is that he is wearing, of course, the camouflage footie pajamas. Some children wear uniforms to school. Merrick wears his everywhere else and it is one thing -- camo footies.

In the upscale store, he says loudly: "I should stwat sleeping with a wifle."

Pause.

Joyful: "I fowgot! I ALWEADY SLEEP WITH A WIFLE."

Scarlett (hisses): "You should be quieter about that."

Indeed.

This is a child whose intellectual needs appear to be a gun, a stick and a dog. So imagine the Matron's shock and unparalleled joy when, at his school conference, Merrick's teacher proclaims the young thug to be a bona fide artist. Not a potential felon.

Teacher: "Mary! Look at this poem! Merrick has a real gift for writing. I think he's an artist; I've never ever seen anything quite so sophisticated and well, impressionistic, from a third-grader."

Impressionism! Artist! Sophisticated! Oh, those Matronly knees shook. She took the poem -- its wrinkled, lovely self evidence that her son was (after all!) gifted.

The poem:

Sacred

Negligible

Outside

Winter fun

No one drove home faster than the Matron, armed with Genius. She could not wait to share the good news with her husband!

Matron: "Look at this! It's just so smart -- it lifts and soars, simple but wise! And the vocabulary! Negligible!"

John: "You sure he wrote that?"

Scarlett: "Mom. He can't even say INAPPROPRIATE correctly and he hears that word twenty times a day. Jack wrote it."

HWCBN: "Cheated. Definitely."

Undeterred, the Matron ignored the heretics and presented the poem to this artist himself. A disciple, she wanted to pay her respects to the Artist.

Matron: "Merrick, I am just SO impressed with this. How did you think of the word negligible? That's such an unusual word!"

Merrick -- pauses and inspects his prose for a long, long loooong minute. Sort of like looking at a interplanetary fallout and wondering where in the heck that stuff came from: "Oh yay. I just looked up wandom wowds in the dictionawy and wwote them down in a line. Miss XX loves it."

And with that, he grabbed his stick and trotted off, his mother's heart in his hands and a cloud of apocalyptic ammo dust in his wake.

Some news is simply too good to be true.