Renewal!

Perhaps the Matron herself has the Vitamin D blues?    No.    Friends, this may be hard to believe but the Matron pretty much forgot about her blog!

The massive, freighted, long-awaited, and somewhat dreaded 50th birthday brought yours truly to a long journey defined, in part, by yoga and meditation.   She has spent the past few weeks fully rooted in the body and moment.    But that itch!  That darn creative tug!   Got her again and she's back to blogging as Versatile Creative Outlet.  Or maybe it was the haircut that got her back here again - you know, fresh, springy start?

Regardless.

Today is all about the update, readers.     No major Matronly changes other than hair . . . oh, and this!

This is the Matron's office.  Yes, she loves this space very much and who wouldn't?  Right outside of those pretty windows is a panoramic view of the Twin Cities, thanks to the beautiful river bluff along which her family lives.   But the deep hue blue is the story here.

Several weeks ago, yours truly mentioned to her beloved that a friend's bathroom (yes) was The Perfect Color for her office.   She clutched her chest and sighed with joy, just thinking about that precise blue.   A color like that made peeing a pleasure!  Just think what it would do against her white woodwork and windows!  John nodded and slurped, as he was doing man-like eating (another blog post) during her discourse.

Imagine her surprise when she came home a week later to find her previously sage green office the precise shade of blue!   That man she married had called the friend to get the paint number, purchased a bucket, undid the office, painted, and put everything back together again while this little cat was away.   The Matron herself didn't lift a delicate finger.  This demonstration of love after 21 years together.

Of course, she cried.   Now that blue?  Even better.

Speaking of better -- Merrick is.

Every night his mother plugs 5000 units of Vitamin D into that meter and she imagines those units immediately off to work:  beef that boy up!   He is fully returned to himself and that boy, returned to his mother.  She likes this relationship much better than the one with the soggy child on the couch.    Unfortunately, Vitamin D hasn't made Merrick appreciate the value of education, bathing or broccoli.     Still, she can hope.

Scarlett is not just a blog post but a novella.    In August, the extremely-amazing-intimidating ENT specialists at the University of Minnesota broke the following news to Scarlett and her parents:  1)  the vocal cord nodules were nearly gone and 2) in their stead, erupted an ugly lesion and hemorrhage.      On the outside chance that this career-threatening injury could heal without surgery ( and trust her, it is not as simple as "Adele did it" which she would appreciate not hearing) Scarlett was ordered on a month of silence.  So that child got an official bona fide medical leave from school and stayed home with her white board.

And her mother.   The Matron is not sure who experienced more internal dialogue and upheaval during that month, but try for a moment to have a teenager utterly home bound for a month --and following you with a white board.

She has long returned to school and the miracle did happen:   hemorrhage and lesion are now things of the past.  The vocal cord is still in recovery -- all swollen and soft and partially effective -- so Scarlett remains outside those theater doors, marking month six without a show.    Much to everyone's surprise but Scarlett's, she has revealed reservoirs of resilience, wisdom, and wit -- characteristics that her mother (however adoring) didn't even know her daughter had.  

But dedicated readers will know that theater is hard-wired into this child so she can reassure that this has not been a divorce-type situation.  Scarlett attends a performing arts high school and so gets to sing (sometimes), dance, and act (using voice sparingly) every day; she is also serving a local theater in various non-acting capacities.

Scarlett is not biding her time but making the most of it.  

  Proud Mama!  Here is the Matron with her daughter, heading off to a fundraiser with a wardrobe challenging 70s theme.

He Who Cannot be Named (HWCBN) will receive another academic award at his high school this week, honoring the top ten students in each graduating class.  

About a month ago, this is what HWCBN said to his mother:  "Things are going really well for me right now. I'm happy!"    He was a little surprised by points A and B in that statement:  things going well, happy.     The Matron will confirm that this is indeed reality and not wishful thinking.  

You know those all important college tests, the ones where your score actually DOES matter?   Good -- extremely good -- news on that front.  You know that social piece, where it's nice if people in high school actually like you?   HWCBN was given the junior spot as "prince" in the "Winter Court," a winter-type Homecoming (and if you could see the snow still on the ground you would understand why Minnesotans require Homecoming type events in January).

The Matron pretty much summed up her beloved with the paint story:  he is still on bended knee, at her service.   Plus he does all kinds of manly things besides eating.  Satan's Familiar can still yip the stuffing out of  Thanksgiving and the coon hound (Boc) has grown into his full, two-year old majestic self.   At 90 lbs, he can take out the Matron with a hearty tail swipe.    She just winces and ducks when he runs down the stairs to hurl himself at her as evidence of his undying love.  

And all she is left with is a fresh layer of dog hair.  It's sort of like fairy dust, that stuff.

The Matron has scratched that creative itch and scratched the surface of her tiny, messy, expansive, singular life -- which she is very much enjoying and plans to share again.  Here.

Weary

The Matron cannot resist a cherub, particularly one she herself produced.  Consider the angel above.   Sigh.

So it might not be hard to imagine how the mother fretted over the physical decline of this child.   Virus, strep, flu.  You name the creepy crud and it crawled into him.  Merrick went through each illness straight to the next, wracking up more visits to Urgent Care in six weeks than an entire lifetime.    Yes, the Matron chafed at the time and energy involved in all those doctor visits for "it's a virus" largely but as time went on, she became Concerned.

Every time she looked at that child, she knew something was wrong.   His face?  Pale.  Bright eyes?  Vanished, replaced by depressed little droops of bags and skin.  The boundless energy?   Gone.  Instead, the boy who runs, shoots, volleys and tumbles fell onto the couch and never wanted to get up.

Merrick:  "I feel lazy.  I don't know another word for my main symptom."

Lazy!  

Worse?

The mother began to suspect her child was depressed.   For no real reason, he cried himself to sleep once.  He seemed perpetually down, low, disinterested.   This lackluster approach to sentience disturbed the Matron the most, particularly when coupled with his baggy eyes and pale skin.

One Monday morning as Merrick drooped toward the door and school, she stopped him in his tracks.

Matron:  "We are going to the doctor.  Today.  Your regular pediatrician."

Now, they hadn't seen this doctor during the six weeks of illness-- illness which seemed to acutely manifest itself on the wildly inconvenient weekend or evening (as they so often do).  So it was Urgent Care or any doc that would do.  This time, yours truly called the clinic and demanded to see Dr. D.

And when they did?  Dr. D. walked into the exam room, stopped in his tracks, and put his clipboard on his chest.

Dr. D:  "Wow.  Merrick, you are one sick kid.  You look terrible!"

Here is where the mother nearly fell apart -- affirmed, relieved, grateful, alarmed.  Training and Degree saw precisely what the maternal eye did.   That child was not right.

The physical exam said nothing but that blessed doctor ordered every test under the sun.  The technician took SEVEN vials of Merrick blood.  Drip, drip, drip.   All that information, trickling into the tube.  Various cancers and autoimmune markers ready to reveal.

 . . . or not.  Thank God-Buddha-Oprah-Universe-Allah, nothing irrevocable or enduring was amiss.  But.  Turns out that Merrick has precisely zero Vitamin D coursing through his body.  Zero.

Well, okay, she exaggerates.  But he is "acutely symptomatic" for "Vitamin D deficiency."  The range for this is 30-70 something or other.  Merrick has 14  -- and it will take THREE LONG MONTHS to rectify.

Three months.  From what the Matron has learned, her son may begin to feel a little less lethargic within a couple of weeks but the flagging spirit can can much more time to resolve.  It is difficult to see one's child simply slow down and sputter out, to lay on the couch and ask why he is suddenly "lazy."

Still.

She is grateful for this particular answer -- and not another.   And never, ever again will she doubt her own eye -- the Mama Vision that clearly saw Trouble with her Child.

Grace, Sometimes

The Matron was a reluctant dog park participant today.

Her husband is vacationing in sunny Florida while yours truly:  drives, cleans, cooks, works, and fusses.   The usual stuff, only John's too (who KNEW that one had to slightly angle and kick the snow blower?).   Six days of hauling Matronly ass.

At least that is how she was feeling, facing the dog park.

Lest one slap that Insane sticker on her forehead (DOG PARK?   On top of the job and the family and the driving and the meals?), let her remind her readers that she lives with Satan's Familiar and a 90 lb coon hound (Boc).  Those 90 pounds are solid, insatiable energy that must be spent somewhere.  If not running through 35 snowy acres with a pack of doggie friends, Boc will expend that energy --nonstop -- inside of the house.  And make her crazy.

Plus?   The Matron understands Need.  That dog is hard-wired to run and, in his own dog way, suffers when  open spaces aren't at his command.  She knows this and succumbed her own desires to the needs of -- a DOG.

The Matron trudged into the snow-laden, freezing, gray, dog park with History that went beyond the dog.  The past four days?   A blur on her own:  ACT test for the oldest, rehearsals for Scarlett, Merrick sick again with the never-ending virus, enormous dramas at work,volunteer work, a freelance writing project, driving, driving, driving, nightly dinners, cleaning bathrooms, laundry and 120 students each expecting acute individual attention.   Entirely too many constituents.

She entered the dog park annoyed that she herself alone emptied the dishwasher so someone could do homework, unfettered, and got up early just to make bacon and eggs when teenagers are capable of using a toaster on their own.     The laundry bothered her, how it confused the teenagers and she was the failsafe for wool hand-washables, and Merrick was afraid of the basement for his drum lesson so she had to create a make-shift space upstairs.   She was weary of the virus visiting her house, the endless soups, teas, and remedies she herself - without recognition -- was deploying.

Plus she was wearing snow pants and a parka.     Not her best look.

In the midst of the crabby, cold, martyr-leaning walk, Satan's Familiar -- Scruffy -- had a moment.   A small guy (poodle-terrier) he's the sensitive sort.  Twig caught in curly fur?  Scruffy is rendered immobile.  He waits until his human extracts the offending twig before he can trot on.      Water to walk across?  He waits to be carried.  The mutt thinks he's a prince.

Near the end of the walk, the Matron saw Scuffy at a dead halt ahead, holding up a front paw and looking around for her.   They made eye contact.  She knew.

She took off her mittens and held the paw in her hand until a hard snow pack melted.   This took a bit of time while Scruffy waited patiently, immobile with paw in hand, looking at her the entire time - -waiting.   When the last crisp ice pack melted, she patted his head and said "Good boy."  

As he dashed off with barely a glance -- free! -- she realized that this was her life:  John, Stryker, Scarlett, Merrick -- yes, even the dogs.  We stoop or stretch to care for another, offer what they need.    This mother  is simply the one who does what's needed.  Hold a paw or scratch a back or take over garbage duties if it's a really, horrible adolescent  day, or take over the family when your partner needs a break   -- sort of the same thing.

When she put her hand back in the mitten, the skin was warm.  

Sometimes, She Scares Herself

Yesterday marked Day 36 of the Bikram Yoga challenge: not being one to settle for the ordinary 30-in-30, yours truly felt compelled to go six more days.

Just in case nobody noticed.

Although the Matron does her best not to think during class -- just listen, breath, and move-- sometimes epiphanies visit her.  This is a pleasant offshoot of the meditative yoga experience.

In the midst of yesterday's Standing Tree Pose, such Realization flashed through the Matron, from her prayer-like hands to her one-legged root.   She came home eager to share this wisdom with her husband.

Matron:  "John!  I had a complete and total epiphany during yoga today.  I am NOT going to talk so much about myself.   Have you ever noticed how much I discuss the texture of my day?  The precise nuance and nature of my feelings, stance, demeanor?   No -- really.  Have you ever noticed that?"

John (truly, truly considering his words here):  "Um . . . -- "

Matron:  "I KNOW.   So here's the deal.     Real yoga practice demands being an empty vessel.   I've been thinking about Sunday's Dharma talk too, how living without dualism - impossible, a goal, really -- means understanding other as self, one and the same.  So I am going to subjugate my own needs and sense of self (ego) and allow that energy to move into the needs of others.   It's amazing what happens to one's own ego and sense of self when that self is reconsidered in the service and appreciation of others.  This all came upon me in a flash during yoga.   I swear that practice has completely transformed me.  What an amazing, enlightening experience these 36 days have been.   Maybe it was because I can now do the Standing Tree Pose with no hand support that I was able to achieve this realization?   Probably.  Now I can stand on one leg without a problem and even go to my heel - no hands!  That's sort of how I re-understood life as being about forgetting self and subsuming self-interest into others.  It's so exciting!     I can already feel the difference in my bones-- sort of my stance toward the world.  What do you think?"

John:  "About what?"

Matron:  "Me not talking or thinking about ME?  Isn't that interesting?"

John:  "I'm at a loss.  Interesting, yes."

Matron:  "I KNOW . . . and isn't that . . . ."  And so she continued, the new non-focus on the self becoming the new focus on her self.

John:  "Mary?  Are we done talking about how we're not going to talk about you anymore?"

Matron:  "Of course!   We're not even talking about ME we're talking about how we're not going to focus on ME.  There's a qualitative difference."

John:  "Well, let's hold that thought until we get dinner on the table."

Matron:   "Yes! I can't wait to tell the children!"

Of course, everybody was thrilled to discuss not discussing their mother and her new journey toward non-self focus.  Just the way she likes it!

The Matron and the Month

The Matron officially became matronly late November.

She knows, she knows:  50 is just a number.   Sure.  Trouble is that it's HER number now and she's still wiggling around the adjustment arena, AARP card in her wallet.

In an attempt to embrace the new era, the Matron recently re-dipped her toe into Bikram Yoga.  Yours truly has been a yoga devotee for nearly two decades (see that age thing again?) but hers is the gentler, kinder sort wherein light sweat dusting the forehead constitutes exertion.

Bikram Yoga?   Consists of 26 machine-like postures done at a clip in 105 degrees for 90 minutes.  That's right:  hard exercise for 90 minutes, 105 degrees.   The Matron did a class here and there for a couple of years.   Just after her birthday, she went back only to discover that each January, the studio offers a "30 in 30 Challenge."

Take 30 classes in 30 days and it will cost you just $30.   Make it through the entire thirty days in a row and you get 30 classes, free!

Now, this appealed to the competitive Matron but Duty and Responsibility to the family and career settled in beside Fear to construct a sturdy wall between her and the 30 in 30 Challenge.  She has a job!   Three children!  A husband who would like to see her upon occasion.

More significantly, the Matron doubted her ability to physically make it through.  A Bikram Yoga class leaves the body limp and spent.  Her first class back in December?   She limped through the next day, muscles heretofore unrecognized screaming their existence.  Even her forearms hurt.    After a two year yoga absence, she just didn't she had what it took.  Besides, this was a younger person's game.

Still, the Matron ran it by her beloved.  Then the children.  She took note of the folks signing up for the Challenge, including a young married couple with two children and complex 'ex' and child care arrangements.   She began wondering:  why not?    Some people turn 50 and scale a mountain, take a cruise, or buy ridiculous jewelry (she bought boots).   Was it too much to ask of herself -- and her family -- that she immerse herself in a yoga that also billed itself a "90 minute open eye meditation."

January first, the Matron took a Bikram Yoga class and officially decided NOT to sign on.   She pushed her way through 90 minutes.  At the end of the class, you would think she had just stood under a shower, that drenched in sweat and exhaustion.    She congratulated herself on her good, common sense attitude toward that number and her realistic appreciation of limitations (time and body).  Just as she was walking out the door to leave, she noticed the young married couple officially turning over their thirty bucks each.

Young Woman:  "Let the games begin!"

And without one second of thought, yours truly turned around and said:  "Sign me up."

Today at 9:30 am, the Matron is taking class number 28 in 28 days.   Her body?  Never, ever felt better.  Sleep?  Finally, not eluding her.  Psyche?  Laser focused and fit.  Family?  Incredibly proud of her feat and commitment:  not once did she ever consider skipping a class.  Indeed, she has become a bit nervous about getting there -- at this point, leaving very early to accommodate accident or mishap, bent on getting those 30 in 30, done.  

Early on, the Matron decided some thing would just have to give.  The Challenge is a two hour daily time commitment:  90 minutes of class and 15 minutes travel/dress on either end (it's close and she's speedy).   She decided:  yoga, family, job.  That's it and in that order (yes, sorry kids).   So she's said 'no' to a couple of outings and skipped Sunday morning services at the Zen Center once.   John has taken over more domestic duties and there have been a couple of late nights.   But it's been worth every second.

It's not Mount Everest.  No.  But a psychological hurdle for the Matron, just the same, who truly convinced herself that something challenging was a younger person's game.  And then set about proving herself wrong.

Dear NRA

Dear National Rifle Association Leadership,

Public policy has its practical considerations and the Matron would like to voice hers.   She appreciates the NRA's thoughtful reflection and recommendation that teachers carry guns.  As a worker on the ground, she has a few questions.

First, does teacher carrying guns extend to the college level?   She wonders about the distinctions between state, private, and community colleges if it does.    Once that's settled, the Matron has a pressing question about job classification:  do adjunct professors carry firearms or only tenured faculty?   Or tenure track?  

If you're a substitute teacher at a public elementary school, is there a separate licensing procedure for the one-in-a-while arming?

Let's say that all gets settled.

The Matron wonders about wardrobe.  Now, this may seem middling to the powers that be, but she is talking practical application.  The Matron takes her wardrobe seriously.

She cannot be alone as the tiny sort.    A slim figure, she can't imagine 'carry and conceal.'  So she's assuming any armed intruder would be fully aware that the Matron is fully loaded during Introduction to Composition.

Will she have a holster?    That would do, as long as the holster comes in different colors -- to match her shoes.

If she carries a semiautomatic perhaps a backpack would be better.  She assumes there's training in navigating between the back and instant firing.

Could the Matron be allowed something with a "mother of pearl" handle?  She has no idea what that means but like the feel of the phrase.  Considering the hard-thought criteria, thus far, for teacher-gunslingers, she thinks that's a legitimate question.

The Matron is also concerned about an unforeseen recent development.

Merrick:  "Mom!  Now that teachers get to carry guns, I might be a teacher. S.W.A.T. guy or teacher!!"

Indeed.

The Matron now wonders about her colleagues:  what are the hiring criteria?    Acumen with a gun or the intellect?  

Will the Matron receive training, professional development, and refresher courses in weaponry?  She hopes so.  It is hard for her to open a pickle jar so she has some concerns about her ability to flip from sentence construction to weaponry.

Speaking of which, what laws apply to her gun?    Perhaps the weapon remains on campus.   If not, she brings the gun home every night?  

Merrick would love that.

The mother, however, wonders if she will also drive home with the gun, secure the gun at night, give it to her secretary at the end of the day, throw it in the garbage . . . or what?  This seems like a particularly important issue as she imagines getting pulled over for speeding with a 45 in her pocket.

Thank you, NRA, for your timely and personal response.

Sincerely,

The Matron

PS:  May she color coordinate everything to her shoes.  Boy, she hopes that's in her union contract.

Decades in a Day

Matron to John.  It is 10 pm.   The woman of the house is spent, facing details yet for the day to come.  Plus she wants to watch Downton Abbey and eat cookies.   Which can't wait.

Matron:  "Where DID the day go?!!   I can't even remember a single thing that happened!"

John, long pause.

"Remember?  You got up at 5:20.   Fed the dogs, let them out, started coffee and then breakfast for Stryker.  Fed the teenager boy and attended to his angst about upcoming ACT and finals.    Before 6:30 am.  Woke up the household, called two schools to report Scarlett's absence because of orthodontist and Merrick because of strep throat.  Then you vacuumed the house and made breakfast for both younger kids.  Got Merrick settled as he recovered from strep, Scarlett off to rehearsal.   Next?  Two prescriptions to refill, one vet appointment to make.   Two loads of laundry.  Now it's 9:30 a.m.   Library books returned.  You finish two syllabi which you've been working on all morning in between domestic duties and send them for copying.  Settle in Merrick and go to a four hour work meeting.  In the meantime, I agonize with Scarlett at the orthodontist as she gets braces -Invisalign, worse than normal -- and drive her to a rehearsal whle she weeps and rails.   I rush home to make lunch for Merrick and walk dogs.   Return to theater for Scarlett.  You continue on at work meeting.    Then I more or less successfully send work email until l- whoops, time to pick up Scarlett from rehearsal.  Do that.   Get home.  Merrick's fever has spiked.  I give him Tylenol and start my work taxes.  Leave to get Stryker from Debate and then bring him to work.

Then you call and you have a schedule change for Spring Semester while in the midst of your meeting.   deal with hysteria.   Redo family calendars.  Okay.

Mail comes.  You've ordered Brady Brunch from Day One through Eternity as love note to Merrick-With-Strep.  I spend much time reframing 1970s culture for Merrick.

Boc jumps the fence.   I spend twenty minutes chasing him and ten minutes calming you down via text.   My biggest client asks if I can meet with him tomorrow morning at 8 am.  I say yes and spend 20 minutes re-organizing domestic schedule.

You come home from work for an hour before going to yoga.   While home, you put in a load of laundry, answer email, check Merrick's temperature, update the family calendar, start dinner you can't eat because of yoga, check phone messages, wash the dog slime off front door, return orthodontist call, give Scarlett Advil for dentist pain, return call to my mother, put out tomorrow's garbage and I am felled.  That was a 40 minute flurry. Plsu you dusted the entire second floor while arranging a play date for Merrick on Friday.

Then you leave for a 90 minute 'relaxing' yoga session at 105 degrees, come home to eat for the first time in 9 hours, send me the schedule for tomorrow, finish laundry, put Merrick to bed, attend to Scarlett's hysteria, help Stryker with his schedule for finals and the ACT, combed Scruffy and then fell down a bit in exhaustion.

That's our day."

Here, the Matron falls into his arms and weeps.

Matron:  "We're the Titanic!."

John:  "Just one rough day.  And isn't the Titanic a great love story?"

Then they ate cookies and watched Downton Abbey.