Stage Mother: The Callback!

The Matron was a bit disappointed that the callback was so, well, uneventful.

She was also surprised, considering that several days ago, this message appeared on the answering machine. Conjure upbeat female voice:

"Hello! This is a message for Scarlett from the Children's Theater. Because winnowing down from 350 people was just so much fun, we decided to hold yet another open call in order to add a gazillion more children to the mix! That means Wednesday's callback will be the first of two! Instead of a 15 minute solo audition, you'll be doing singing, dancing and improvisation in a group. The final callback we save for the anointed and their runners-up."

Spool forward to Wednesday. Scarlett yawned the whole way there. "I'm so tired. How long will this take?"

Matron: "Aren't you a little bit excited?"

Scarlett (shrugs): "Not really."

Once there, each child received the same number they were given at their original audition. Scarlett pinned 226 to her chest. The Matron nearly fell over when 502 walked by.

The Matron, having learned some lessons, brought papers to grade and Riding Shotgun: Women Write about Their Mothers. This is a perfect book. She thinks you should read it!

And Scarlett yawned and languished and sighed and read her book as they waited in Rehearsal Room B. She nearly fell asleep, she was that noncholant.

At precisely 7 pm. someone came in and said: "Okay Group B! Step on up!"

Scarlett could barely stand, she was that weak in front of her mother. "Bye Mom," she moaned.

But in a magical moment, the Matron happened to catch a glimpse at her daughter -- who thought she was out of the maternal eye range -- and friends? The Matron now understands what the phrase 'gleam in her eye' really conveys. That child radiated and blew, energy just flying off of her. Those eyes blazed.

The Matron is not quite sure why Scarlett must establish portrait of stoic disinterest in front of her mother (and father). She suspects that her daughter wants to make clear: this is mine, not yours. So they will not share in the experience, in anyway, whatsoever.

And this Stage Mother thinks that is a very fine idea!

During the audition, the Matron kept her head low. She thought grading papers would make her far more unapproachable than reading so she spread out the whole darn mess and worked.

She did follow, however, the activities of another Stage Mother who had caught her eye earlier because she looked like her child's personal trainer. First, the woman wore a polyester workout suit with the top neatly tucked in. This suit was pink. Pop, pop, pop pink! With little white flowers around the edges. For some reason, this bothered the Matron who believes that pink flowered sweat suits in women over fifty are, well, frightening and possibly illegal. Contributing to the look was behavior: she carried her daughter's gear (the child was not a teen, easily 16) and handed her the water bottle whenever those lips required moistening.

The amazing thing was the daughter drank and handed the bottle back for her mother to hold, poised at her side for the next sip.

Maybe the Matron was doing it all wrong! Because earlier when she noticed all these water bottles and gear (what were these people carrying in the big bags?!), she asked Scarlett: "Do you need a drink of water?"

"I'm fine."

During the audition, Pink compared notes with several other mothers. They discussed upcoming auditions, directors, company politics and fine arts training. There were several groups and couplings, actually, parents who knew one another from previous shows. The Matron listened from time to time, but all they talked about was their children.

Yawn. There's a war going on, folks! A black man and a woman are duking it out to be President! Husbands to complain about! Jobs to discuss, local politics, and don't forget Al Franken!! Say it isn't so, Al. The Matron just can't help but be annoyed at you for owing $70,000 in back taxes from 17 states while you're running for Senate. She thinks that's just sloppy. Now even she doesn't want to vote for you! If your mistake means six more years of Norm, she will personally come after you!

And she has a secret weapon.

Friends, online and off?

The Matron now understands two things. First, the Stage Mother material is so rich, so textured, so fundamentally screwy and askew (and she means the psycho-dynamics, the people, the hours, the competition - every last little bit) that this could make a very fine book? The next YA novel?

Second, she now knows she possesses an amazing secret weapon. A tool so powerful that it can only be deployed with gratitude, respect and care-- your beautiful, unstoppable, indomitable good energy!

Because today this message appeared on the answering machine. Use the same voice you did for the first one: "Hello! This is the Children's Theater calling for Scarlett! Scarlett, we would like to see you at the final callback for Madeline and the Gypsies. The callback is one hour, 7-8 pm, this Sunday, May 4! Congratulations."

That zip and pop in the child's eye? The Matron can't help but think it was you. Thank you for that good energy!! She also believes that collective power planted that book idea. She's doubly indebted.

One more time? Sunday, 7-8. Aim that ray.

The greedy writer that lives inside the Matron? She thanks you!

The Mistake She Made

When the Matron was a Wee Miss, she spent several summer weeks in giddy anticipation of Brownie Camp. Wee Miss was new to the world of Girl Scouts and was a prime candidate for a badge of any sort, so organized, efficient and ambitious was she.

Wee Miss was not just attending Brownie Camp. She would reign.

So imagine her complete and total psychological collapse when this exchange took place:

Wee Miss: "Mama! It says on the calendar that today is Thursday! And the date is July 23. Is that true?!"

Mama: "Why yes."

Wee Miss: "BROWNIE CAMP STARTED ON MONDAY! I missed Brownie Camp!"

Silence.

Wee Miss: "How could you forget Brownie Camp!!! How could you!!"

Mama: "Mary, honey, I am so sorry."

Now, Wee Miss was fundamentally altered at that moment. How indeed? She had been prancing about in Brownie Camp cloud all summer, tossing Brownie Camp glitter and painting Brownie Camp dreams.

But her mother forgot the very thing that was most precious to the Wee Miss. Her dream. Worse, her mother knew about the dream. Watched it dance and plot every day. It was impossible to overlook.

Wee Miss picked up this little black ball of pain, sorry and rage and swallowed it whole. She nurtured that ball. Took it out and shined it up from time to time. As she grew, Young Miss picked up the burden. She felt that ball growing and rolling, in the pit of the belly for years.

Until one day Aging Miss realized --- there was no money. Her mother hadn't forgotten. Wee Miss talked about Brownie Camp every single day. That was the year at the cusp of food stamps and welfare, the lost father. Her mother had nothing--no food stamps, no money, no husband, no job, and no money for Brownie Camp.

She felt sorry for her mother, that very young single mother who struggled so hard to build a life for her three young children that she pretty much abandoned her own. And, the Matron saw herself, again, in a new light, how sometimes our grievances operate more like self-inflicted wounds.

Last week, the Matron returned to this moment and her personal journey because of this phone conversation:

M: "Hello, Great River Montessori Charter Public School! I'm calling to see where Stryker is on the waiting list for Junior High. The letter we got said he was #37 in February. Hopefully, he's much higher now."

Long ominous silence.

GR: "He's not on the waiting list."

M (alarm!! alarm!!): "What! Of course he is!! We filled out our application on time! You know me! We've been to that school, inspecting, thirty million times! His heart is set on it!"

GR: "Mary, you read the letter but we never received your confirmation form. If you read all the way down on the letter, you would see that you were to fill out a form accepting the spot on the waiting list and return this to us. We never got yours. We're way past 37. He would've been in."

Silence. Because the Matron is crying (an activity she continued just a little bit once the phone call was over, too). She saw that '37' and read no more. She chucked that letter.

Stryker is now #19 on the list but has been informed that the list does not move that much over the summer. He's enrolled at two other junior high schools.

But his heart? His dream? His fondest desire? Great River.

This, my real-life and online friends, is a private mama-venting post. For the moment, the Matron is not offering to Stryker that she has made this mistake. If he asks or questions his position on the list, she will tell him. But she's not introducing the topic.

She hates to think of her son shining his own black ball into something permanent.

Mistakes, anyone?

The Matron's is still bringing her great, great mama pain.

The World, The Job, The Daughter Or How To Work Everything into One Post

People occasionally ask the Matron two questions about her blog.

First, how much time do you spend on that damn thing?!

Because the Matron prefers reading and writing to direct human contact, she could spend every waking moment engaged in those activities, online. But she limits her writing time to half an hour.

The second, more frequent, question is: don't you ever run out of things to say?

Never! In fact, she has the opposite problem. She has opinions on just about everything under the sun and is happy to share them. Her mind is just one big pinball machine, popping between this and sliding through that.

Even before noon, items of interest had come to the Matron's attention. First, she heard Antonin Scalia pronounce the Constitution dead. We should leave it exactly as those 18th century founders intended.

Convenient perspective if you're a white man. The rest of us had to fight for that vote.

Then, she gasped in horror when Karl Castle told her (this would be the radio voice coming from National Public Radio) that an Austrian man kept his daughter in a dungeon for 24 years. Where he raped her. All the time. Six children are on the planet as a result of that torture. A seventh died and his body was put in an oven.

He had a wife and family upstairs who claimed to know nothing about the dungeon, the incest/rape/torture, the body, the children.

She just cannot comprehend that degree of evil. The Matron stands and reconsiders her faith in people's fundamental goodness in the face of news like this.

Wait, she is going to not use the word 'person' to describe that monster. That will help.

Pain and politics in just one blog post. She also wants to write more about global warming and how we can shrink our carbon toes, all that. But her half hour limit forces her to be picky!

There's also Mary Kay Blakely to consider. The Matron never forgot hearing this co-founder of Ms. Magazine give a radio interview, in which she credited communal energy as the source of her recovery from a deadly, two-week long diabetic coma.

About 20 years ago, Blakely fell into this coma. She was dying. Thank goodness she had friends like Gloria Steinem, good women friends --the very best kind -- who are inventive and loyal beyond all else! Her friends sent thousands of messages to thousands of people asking everyone to send Blakey healing energy.

Create those waves! Will her to recover! If the Matronly memory serves, these thousands focused their brain wattage and collectively envisioned Blakely's recovery simultaneously, at an allotted hour.

And Blakely woke up!

The Matron has goosebumps, just thinking about this!

So now she needs to thank all of her kick-ass incredible loyal friends in real life and online for that massive, unstoppable wave of good will that carried on April 15th. Just like Gloria Steinem!

Not only did she get the job . . . she got the offer in a New York minute, slam dunk, hands-down winner!

She accepted the offer. But. She spent one moment in silence, sending energy and support to all the adjuncts, everywhere. She understands herself to be pretty darn lucky. . . to have had that wave!

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Not to be greedy, but the Matron has more energy suggestions.

First, send Scarlett that blast of good energy and success sometime between 7 and 8 this coming Wednesday, April 30th! She has her callback for Madeline and the Gypsies at the Children's Theater. And the Matron has a confession! She really wants her daughter to get in that play! Why? For the blogging material. She is clear that it has nothing to do with Scarlett and is all about HER.

Second, perhaps if we collectively envisioned Scalia a circus clown he could find a more suitable occupation? He sort of has the look, already. Don't you think there's a Bozo-like quality to the contours?

Finally, because the Matron really does believe that most people are good, she hopes that every single person who hears about that woman in the basement --throughout the world, every person and there will be millions -- sends this woman some focused love and prayer and peace.

She hopes humanity can somehow save that woman, now.

And if anyone remembers the Blakely story and knows that the Matron has it all wrong, please don't tell her!

She's happy to be a believer.

I Don't Hate You

While transporting children, the Matron overheard the following between two strapped-in five year olds:

Friend: "My mom doesn't like taking care of me."

Merrick: "My mom hates me."

Friend: "My mom doesn't hate me. She just hates taking CARE of me."

Merrick: "Well. My mom hates me."

Merrick, the Matron understands that she should whisk you to your room each and every time this phrase flies off your lips. Should children utter these words to one another, they are punished.

Occasionally, you hurt yourself. Your mother will rush toward you.


"Go away! You hate me!"

Or, you request an ice cream cone at the very moment the Matron is setting the table for dinner. She must say no.

"You hate me!"

The Matron is fairly certain she knows the origins of the phrase, the emotional kernel of the sentiment (which she understands is not hate).

Because frequently, you will rush into the kitchen holding your penis, requesting an audience to watch that instrument do its work, just as the Matron is in the midst of complex culinary swirl. She will roll her eyes and sigh in exasperation-- and then go with you.

"You hate me!"

Or she is carrying two backpacks, one purse, one stuffed parrot, three books, bag of Cheetos, and one grocery bag from van to care and you yell: "Mama! Help me find my sword!"

When she alerts you to the fact that she is otherwise occupied and that once this load has been lightened, she must let the barking dogs back in and immediately turn around and drive Stryker to baseball, you say this:

"You hate me!"

You see, Merrick, your mother doesn't hate you. It's simply that-- from your perspective--she must be so astoundingly frequently unavailable to you. She's right there! Why can't she throw the ball, find the doggie, fix the turtle or find the baseball bat?

So when your friend says his mother hates taking care of him, it's just that we--the Mamas of the world -- would love nothing more than a wide landscape of time, money and psyche that would allow us to be with you in ways that are bigger, better and more interesting than wiping butter off your face or watching you brush your teeth.

If the Matron didn't have dinner to make or Scarlett to transport, yes, she'd play with you. If she didn't have to go to teach Saturday mornings, she would not mind finding Freddie the Frog in your toy chest. Better yet, she would prefer to go on a bide ride or read a book.

Today, Merrick, your mother has 50 people coming to her house in under three hours. She's sorry she doesn't have time to paint that bench purple or braid string.

But she doesn't hate you. And she will stop her party preparations to take you to the bathroom, find the cream colored socks, and even read a book, once. Just a fraction of your requests, she knows.

But she's trying.

Satan's Familiar

Yesterday, the Matron defied gravity. She hoisted the tiny acorns into her one and only push-up bra and tottered on high heels.

She felt fine!

Her hair looked good. Her purse and shoes worked well. All that teacher appreciation was just shooting through those veins! She loves her women students!

After teaching her day class, she shot home to grab the eighteen items she forgot to pack earlier: guitar for the guitar lesson; snacks; notes for teachers; overdue library books. Apples, string cheese, water. Her good mood allowed her to toss a new bag of Oreo into the mix.

As she was heading out the door to retrieve her children, Satan's Familiar implored. He wanted to ride along.

Now, Satan's Familiar is currently confined to the back porch, sort of the Matronly version of the kennel. He spends most of his time there with complete and total access to the dog door. In and out, he can go. Poop in the grass? Entirely within his reach.

But on Wednesday, SF was off the porch for just ten brief minutes. Not one to waste time, he deposited not one but three piles of poop in Scarlett's room.

That dog has talent.

But John is certain, certain, that Satan's Familiar will undergo miraculous Bowel Realignment if only he is allowed to ride in the car. To that end, SF has started traveling to post offices, grocery stores, banks and schools..

He hangs his ugly black head out the window, happy.

Because she was flying high--she felt fine, this hip middle-aged version of the put-together working mama balancing the world on her slim shoulders -- the Matron opened the door and let that damn dog out.

He immediately shot across the street and disappeared.

Satan's Familiar does not answer to any name. And, he is thoroughly afraid of the Matron, sensing her hatred and all that.

Ten minutes later, the Matron found SF eating squirrel food (bread) five houses down. He cowered against a tree until she grabbed him and, because she will support any Bowel Realignment Plan, put him in the van.

She picked up the children from school where Satan's Familiar spent some time deceiving the other families into thinking him an adorable, benign family pet. He played fetch! He licked small children. He allowed himself to be picked up and hugged by mobs of preschoolers.

"What a sweet dog!"

"He's so good with children!"

"Scruffy! What a perfect name!"

Hmmm.

In the van, the children sensed her free spirit and implored: "Can we go to Bread and Chocolate, Mom! Please, please, please!"

They are very good at the unified front. So she relented.

The sun was shining. The day was fine and so was the Matron. She and her children enjoyed a lovely treat at Bread and Chocolate, a decadent little coffee shop on the trendy and busy Grand Avenue.

As they were leaving, the Matron sensed something. . . something unusual. The female intuition made her turn and yes! She met the eye and got a wide smile from a gorgeous mid-forties male who was sipping his espresso at a sidewalk table. She couldn't help it. She smiled back, this calm put-together well-dressed working mama who was not screaming at her children nor wearing sweat pants!

Then she opened the door to the van.

Satan's Familiar shot out.

Grand Avenue is a busy, busy, busy, street. Cars drive on it. Lots of them.

And the Matron tottered and ran and raced on those high heels, her acorn chest heaving as she screamed after that dog who gave one thorough romp up and down the block. The three children cried and screamed by her side as Satan's Familiar darted once out into the street!

He shot back! Passers by tried to grab him. Gorgeous lunged, too. The Matron yelled "Scruffy!" at the top of her lungs to no avail.

Finally, the dog decided to cower under the van, with cars whipping by at top speed, just inches from his head.

Did she mention that Scarlett is sobbing: "He's going to die! He's going to get hit by a car!"

So the Matron (who is furious) spends give a few minutes kneeling on the sidewalk -- all semblance of her formerly fine self abandoned -- screaming at Satan's Familiar to COME OUT RIGHT NOW (you goddamn dog) in front of the audience of coffee shop patrons (including Gorgeous) who were previously enjoying some peace and quiet with their latte.

As Satan's Familiar consistently creeps away from the Matron, she realizes that he senses her, ah, current state. He fears for his life. Rightly.

So Stryker calls his dog, quietly, gently: "Scruffy! Here you, boy!"

Scruffy goes right into his arms. The Matron hoists her acorn bra back into position, pulls up the hosiery and hauls herself into that van.

Only to discover that while they had been enjoyed cinnamon swirls and cocoa, Satan's Familiar had eaten all of the snacks the Matron had packed and forgotten in the car - including a brand new bag of Oreo cookies! Crackers, string cheese. Attentive to the food pyramid, he even gnawed on an apple.

The Matron understands this is part of his plan to produce four times his body weight in poop later this evening. She wonders how he will worm his way into the house so he can distribute the goods evenly.

At least, as she was pulling away from the curb, that that guy? He gave her one last smile.

But Then There Is This

So the Matron has a few high need students on her hands.

She also has this: a current night class with a gaggle of 8 women in their early forties who've become dear friends through their shared quest for the all-important college degree.

They are practically lunching instead of in schooling as they sit around their shared table and try (largely successfully) not to talk about their children, husbands and jobs and instead, to focus on College English.

They are respectful, disciplined, courteous, friendly and hard-working.

The Matron must resist the frequent and intense urge to sit down at that table. She'd like to start conversations: "Oh! You have a 15-year old! How are you handling the whole driving thing?"

Or join in, when she eavesdrops on this: "There's a plastic spoon sitting on the front steps. It's been there for 42 days. I'm not moving it. Think anyone else will?"

She can hardly stand it! She wants to chat.

And they are not helping her situation.

The second week of class, one of these women raised her hand and said this: "You look so cute today! It's the hair, up like that."

Matron: "Oh, thank you! I'm of a certain age. I'll take any compliment I can get."

Student: "Honey, age doesn't matter. We all wanna look good."

Laughter and general female good will.

The following week, the entire group waved her over to the table to point out how smashingly the Matronly earrings and bracelet operated as a fashion unit. The indigo and amber sparkled and popped, just so. They noted their collective approval.

Later, the boots.

Student raises hand: "Mary? Where did you get those boots? Please don't tell me you got those at a thrift store, too? I'll be just sick with envy."

The Matron notices how they then put their heads together and peered in her direction.

Yesterday, the Matron spent quite some time dressing for these women. She fretted and scowled at the brown pants with the Doc Martin boots. Not quite right -- and besides, no clear jewelry match--not to mention the purse! She wiggled into something that was just a bit too hot for the audience. Maybe gypsy, hippy-dippy kinda thing? Not quite right.

She finally settled on a sea green J.Jill dress that was breezy and bookish, in a feminine sort of way. Tights, shoes, and jewelry, carefully considered. Why, she nearly forgot to create the quiz, she was so preoccupied!

Here's the kind of scholarly recognition she's getting these days. Forget Omar. Let's be grateful for any kind of teacher appreciation.

"Mary! Did you notice how the blue in those shoes perfectly draws out the tiny flowers in the dress? You add in the gray tights and it's just stunning!"

Yes! She noticed! And thank you.

Example of Why Matron is Not Allowed to be Typical Stage Mother Even is She so Wanted

Matron: "Scarlett, your hair looks really nice pulled back like that."

Scarlett: "One hundred and four."

Matron: "One hundred and four what?"

Scarlett: "One hundred and four times you've said something about me, to me."

Matron: "Is that bad?"

Scarlett: "Let's just say we'd rather not get to one hundred and five, shall we?"