Maybe Someone Will Mention Freud?

Tomorrow, the Matron is hosting the English Department faculty for a Fall Semester Precursor Potluck.  Fun!  Her entirely-pleasant colleagues will attend  - with their families.   This would also include young children.  

Young children who perhaps have not yet been introduced -- or whose introduction has been condoned -- to the world of SWAT and militia in which the Matron lives.   Her house.   A quick survey this early Saturday morning reveals no less than 20 guns (air soft, nerf, toys of various sort) in plain sight.    The place is a bunker.    She can imagine tomorrow's discourse over Julia Kristeva being peppered with gunfire and small children bleeding from their eyes . . . oh wait.  Nobody's going to be talking about Kristeva.  She forgot--COMMUNITY college.   Conversation will center on retention and grammar.

Oh well.

Still, today is the munitions sweep.   Which reminds her of a favorite parenting moment and a pretty darn funny blog post.  Happy Saturday!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~

Our kids go to a public Montessori school that is also an international peace site. The schools is known for attracting left-wing, hippy-dippy, peace-sign wielding families.

Mean looks are disallowed. Breath hard? You need therapy. People are serious about peace here. Righteous.

Merrick had his first ever birthday part today: Five Years Old!

He invited six little friends from his combined age 4 and 5 year old classroom--and his longtime, best friend, probably future husband Lachlan.

Spouse aside, these kids were total strangers to our family. Most of this little group of five year olds are all first-born to their families, trend setters.

Thus, there were detailed phone conversations in advance of this major social event. Little Q gets a tummy ache after eating wheat. Will there be toast or cracker? T and L don't quite get along. Can't we disinvite one? H. is scared of dogs. Can you euthanize yours?

So today all the fussy parents dropped off their kids for Merrick's birthday party. I used to be one. I understand.

The children held hands. They sang in harmony. Girls and boys pecked cheeks--they shared cake and inquired about hurt feelings and state of mind. They frolicked and radiated sun beams and goodwill.

Until one of the kids went under the couch (why do they do that?) and stumbled across Merrick's hidden arsenal: Knives, swords, guns. Big guns. Lotsa guns. Pop guns, Nerf guns, shot guns, air guns. Sky's the limit.

Now, our household went nearly ten years without guns. I am (theoretically, Opposed). But last year, a friend handed Merrick a bag. He opened it and found a 1950 style pistol. He never looked back.

And because he is child number three, we just took the Path of Least Resistance.

Guns inspire love. This exchange routinely takes place in our household.

Merrick: "Here's my gun!"

Lachlan: "I wove the gun!"

Merrick: "You take the gun."

Lachlan: "No, you take the gun. I wove you."

Merrick: "You have the gun. I wove you better."

And so on.

So the over-attended peace loving children found our cache of juice. Those young ones dropped their flowers and love beads and took up arms. Girl and boy, they spent the next hour killing one another.

Now, this transformation began while I was in the kitchen. By the time I walked into the war zone, a dazed John was asking what kind of Kool Aid we were serving.

Watching D (only child allowed just 15 minutes of television a week and taking careful selection of dance, language, and Suzuki violin) scream with joy while taking out Merrick with a Nerf bazooka, I decided just to let the whole thing go.

Lord of the Flies? Yup. Mini-reenactment here. By the time the mayhem was complete, the children were sweaty, exhausted, content, murderous pros.

Before the parents arrived, we put away weaponry and handed out banal party bags; tootsie rolls, noise makers and plastic frogs. Not exactly lying.

Little D slid up to me: "This was the best party ever."

I considered explaining to parents at pick up time: yes, we have guns. We have them. They were hidden. Big accident, lotsa fun, apologies.

But I didn't.

I decided to let nature take its course. And imagined lots of this, at bedtime:

"Merrick has guns!"

" I shot L!"

"Merrick has a shot gun. Why can't I?"

"Today at the party we all killed each other! "



Rite of Passage

As the guests arrive at my son's party
they gather in the living room--
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? Six. I'm seven. So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in each other's pupils. They clear their
throats a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the dark cake, round and heavy as a
turret, behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in his clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats,
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son's life.

Sharon Olds

Acquiescence: Glue for All Marriage

Indeed, the Matron has determined that acquiescence is the key to marital tranquility and even, happiness.  Note: not bliss.   Acquiescence does not ignite.  It soothes.  

Please, do not confuse temperate, durable Acquiescence with moral collapse or God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe forbid -- caving.  No, no, no!!  To acquiesce is comply, to submit tacitly or passively.   One can acquiesce in complete stubborn and self-righteous disagreement.  Indeed, the Matron herself has acquiesced -- complied -- with the furrowed brow and folded arm.

What's the Matronly working definition of acquiescence?

Light at Night:  John likes things pitch-black, not a sliver leaking from a shade.  The Matron?  Windows open and moonlight streaming.  Early on, the benefits dark and light were much debated.   The Matron, then a Youngish Miss, was deeply committed to her airy nights -- the expanse of spirit the night light brought out to her.  John, equally smitten with night's silence and black tunnel  . .  . and at some point, the Matron simply -- relented.  She still likes the windows open.  When that man is away, those shades are up.  But she also likes how he burrows into bed, happy.

Wash cloths.     What are these things for?  Oh!  Creating more laundry.   The Matron has no need for the wash cloth.  Soap suds up just fine in her capable hands; she effectively lathers up.   The perfect wash cloth -- texture, color, size, suds-ability -- is pretty much the winning lottery ticket for her husband.    No real to-do would be made of these differing preferences, except that John insists that no bathtub or shower is complete without a stack of wash cloths nearby.  Each bathroom must have stacks of these squares of colored cloth.  If someone takes a shower, he likes to hear "boy, I liked that wash cloth today!"   Wash cloths annoy the Matron.  If indeed they are really sloughing off so much skin-gunk, then why should she touch yours?  But the bathrooms in their house are replete with the venerable wash cloth.

Dishwasher.  There is a right way and a wrong way to stack this.  John's way is right.  The Matron follows this.   She is in absolute complete disagreement but indeed, stacks those plates to the left.   Every time.  And the key -- with a little stab of happiness because her beloved likes it just so (and is oddly attached).

Attached indeed.   Sometimes the Matron considers just how steeped in Habit she is - how attached to the fold of a blanket in the living room or who parks which car where or what she eats for breakfast.    Imagine given free rein here!   Imagine no person or code bumping up against attachment to one's own desires.  This of course would require living alone or with servants.   Driving would be a nightmare.  

But the general idea often gives her pause - how much of a good relationship with a spouse (or anyone, for that matter) is thinking not only of that person's legitimate needs, but their quirks, sensibilities and proclivities and allowing their presence -- as much as we allow our own.

It's easy to wax philosophical about this, of course, when there's nothing to acquiesce to at the moment.  

The trick will be to carry this sanguine stance tomorrow morning when it's time to select a new color to paint the living room.  The Matron believes slate is ideal.   John a warm yellow.   It's a big enough gap that somebody will just have to. . . acquiesce.    Sounds so much better than caving --and it is.

Wherein the Moving Truck Forgot to Pick Up the Furniture

The Matron was feeling pretty darn good about her aging self.   Inspired by Mrs. G to believe that hard work and good luck do sometimes happen at the same time to the same person, she bought a domain name:

minnesotamatron.com

  

Isn't that pretty?   Yes indeed, she owns this.  You can have your matron at dog org, me, net or any other suffix, but she's got the motherlode:  com.

So she lined up that pretty little purchase with a Wordpress blog.   While she was at it, she picked up another little .com as a suffix and attached it to her very fine name:  the Matron and her very own real-self professional writing blog.  Now she had two more occupations to add to the daily to-do list, but no matter.  This was the fun stuff, the things that made her happy.

Until Saturday night around midnight when after four hours of unsuccessfully attempting to move her BlogHer ads to her Wordpress site she googled:  "can you put BlogHer ads on a Wordpress site?"

No.

It turns out that Wordpress is one of those touchy-feeling, anti-capitalist set-ups much like her own psyche.  Rumor has it that ads might be allowed and that all will someday be good with Blogger but then again, there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, remember?

This might all happen someday but in the interim, she's sticking it out a while with blogger and doing some more thorough R&D.  That's Research and Development, a capitalist term with which she is now becoming familiar.

Nobody likes to lose those big fat $30 checks from BlogHer!

So we'll have to settle here for pedestrian pictures and background to accompany the snappy prose.  To entertain herself she's going to change her bloggy scenery every couple of days, just to say 'so there' to the internet.  Because that's helpful.

The New World Didn't Start Friday

But soon!    She'll stop whispering sweet nothings and just let you  know!

The Matron is Moving

It's been quiet on the Matronly front for many reasons, one of which is the new environs.  Yours truly is moving her blog to an easier address and site.  The new world starts on Friday!   She hopes you join her!  Address up in a day or two as the site is currently under construction.   New life, breathing.

Desperately Seeking Distraction

The Matron has discovered a wee bit of working mother nirvana, at least for working mothers who toil primarily at home.    Side note: it is difficult to focus when your 9 year old runs by wearing a bullet-proof vest  and carrying a megaphone, fallout of having an uncle who's a cop and a deep love for all things military.  It's distracting to the mama.

So yours truly discovered what would appear to be the quietest spot in St. Paul:  the East Side Byerly's.  For readers unfamiliar with the social distinctions of the Twin Cities, the Matron lives in the 'hood.  St. Paul's East Side is known more for its pockets of crackville than upscale grocery stores, which is what Byerly's is.   Consequently, this store is frequently down right tomb-like, as the neighbors are all busy counting  drug money or visiting probation officers.   Well, she's exaggerating a wee bit but let's just say that it's not too surprising that an upscale grocery store isn't a local hot spot.  Consequently, the homey restaurant there has closed and the space transformed into empty booths with OUTLETS and a Caribou (coffee!) around the corner.    The Matron has set up shop in this quiet void several times.   It is heaven.  Nobody needs a snack or wants to spend a couple hours figuring out how to buy stock (this would be He Who Cannot be Named).

Last night, she set up camp, as usual:  laptop, iced coffee, Ranch rice cakes (guilty confession!), and a big bag of grapes, all conveniently purchased right there at the dead-quiet upscale grocery store.   Before long, she is utterly engrossed.   Deep in the trenches of syllabi, creating wikis and diddling with online components for her kick-ass classes that start in three weeks.    Out of the corner of her ear (because all mothers hear very well out of this corner) comes an insistent conversation to which the Matron half listens.

"Don't forget about your coffee.  I like coffee with some cream, don't you."  Pause.   "Sometimes in the morning only coffee can wake me up.  How about you?"  Pause.   "A good snack helps work, doesn't it?  Don't forget about your snack, either."  Pause.

This goes on to shape the backdrop of the Matronly landscape until she hears, more distinctly:

"I love those Ranch rice cakes too!   My, my, you're not eating or drinking any of your goodies!  You should take a break."

With HORROR the Matron realizes that whatever narrative that has been steadily unfolding over the past half hour has been directed at HER.

She slloooooowwwwly chances a furtive glance out of the corner of her eye, a scope that is just as effective as the 'corner of her ear' thing -- only to see a rather large, unkempt, eager-looking woman staring sort of at the Matron, but mostly just to the left side of her, at a spot right above the Matronly shoulder.    The woman had on a flagship sort of outfit, one dutifully involving every color of the rainbow and dotted with about four years of dirt and leftovers.   Not too surprisingly, she sat at a table in the otherwise empty former-Nirvana, surrounded by plastic bags that were most likely full of her worldly possessions.

She smiled at the Matron.

Now, the Matron felt a flash of genuine 'hello' and solidarity, these two women camped out in a dead-zone for their various reasons.  She smiled back and returned to her computer with body language that said 'all done with that now' and a sense of sadness for circumstances that brought another human being to the place this woman appeared to be in.  But she hoped that her turned back - smile, aside-- sent a signal: leave her alone, she was working.

Quite conveniently, the woman agreed with this arrangement.   She continued her bright, happy one-way conversation with the Matron, noting with approval when yours truly finally popped open that bag of rice cakes and munched on some grapes.   She also approved of the Matron's new haircut, shoes, work habits and general demeanor.   She noted the good weather, which must be to the Matron's liking and wondered if the Matronly legs weren't chilly, what with the air-conditioning cranked up and that tiny short skirt.  Which was cute, by the way.  The skirt.

Half an hour later, the Matron was feeling pretty darn good about hers stylish, chilly, rice-cake-eating, coffee drinking self when the woman interrupted the complimentary narrative and meandered into the restroom . . . where she stayed for TWO HOURS.

The Matron knows this because she herself stayed for even longer than two hours, slaving away at her underpaid job as a community college instructor until nearly 10 pm.   She also knows that the woman remained ensconced in the same stall, singing softly to herself, for the entire two hours.   How does she know this, you might wonder?  Because the Matron, being of weak bladder, must use the restroom every 20 minutes herself -- another bond she found with this other unlikely compatriot in the upscale restaurant in the edgy neighborhood.    So every 20 minutes or so, yours truly also meandered into the bathroom and peeked, discreetly, at the feet in the other stall.

The feet looked fine.

So the Matron, who considered knocking or seeking assistance after the woman had been in there for an hour, just accepted this natural state of things and listened to the wispy singing (Karen Carpenter) every time she peed.   She hoped that this physical function met with the same approval as her rice-cake eating and coffee-drinking.

Around 9 pm, the woman lumbered out of the bathroom and gathered her things, slowly.   As she was hauling plastic bags around her frame, she paused to shout out over her shoulder:  "Nice talking with you sweetheart."

The Matron said, "Same here."

It was as if they'd been married 20 years, that sort of unspoken agreement about how their relationship should be.  Dysfunctional from the outside perhaps, but completely 100% functional.  

And just when the Matron thought these distractions somewhat pleasant -- other people sharing her working-mama-nirvana space -- two teenage workers from Byerly's plopped down in the booth behind her to take their 15 minute break.

She's encapsulating.

Girl One:  "So Joe bought me a cell phone so my parents won't know we're still together.  God I hate them.  They won't let me use the phone or drive."

Girl Two:  "That's their job!  Their your parents, remember?  And it's sort of illegal for a 17 year old to date somebody who's 32."

Girl One:  "I turn 18 in 47 days and I am SO outta there.   Hey, do you think we can stop somebody to buy us beer and cigarettes?  If you sit outside the liquor store long enough, somebody will do it."

Girl Two:  "This is why your parents won't let you drive or use the phone, April.  Don't you see the connection?"

Whereupon the Matron, radiating love Maternity, began composing her narrative for Girl One.   She rolled this around in her head, perfecting points about listening your parents, the dangers of addiction and 32 year old adult men who date underage children.  

Friends, it was a slam-dunk, dynamite conversation.

Just as she was turning around to pontificate, the Matron stopped herself.   There is something sacred in the working-mama-nirvana space, not only for yours truly but for everyone involved:  one-way conversations, only.

She left it up to Girl Two who was doing a pretty fine job with reason and common sense herself, although Girl One would have none of it.  She packed up her computer with a renewed appreciation for the potential for human drama to unfold, even in nirvana and a little-used, former restaurant space in an upscale grocery store in a shaky neighborhood.

Maybe Merrick is onto something with that bullet-proof vest.

Wherein the Matronly Faith in the Future is Crushed

Tonight, the Matron and her family took in Batman!!

Can she pause here and note that this poorly placed and generally, well, poor picture is why she's soon moving her blog?  Look for info as soon as she's in the process of setting up elsewhere under the actual bona fide Matronly registered name Minnesota Matron dot com.

If that excitement isn't enough for you, let's consider the car ride TO The Dark Knight Rises.   The Matron tries to make every mile count:  her children are captives for the maternal lecture!

The London Olympics provided inspiration and fodder for tonight's lecture.   For the Matron, the Olympics is sometimes a wee little bit about HER and all the stuff she cannot do.  Like swimming.  Or balancing on her toes on a tiny bar or, well, going to London for a month for that matter.

But as God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah-Universe is her witness, her children will make something of themselves!  Who else is she going to live through at this point?

Back to the minivan and captives children.

Matron:  "Did you guys watch that swimming relay?  Those gymnasts?  What discipline and drive!  What good models for setting a goal and devoting yourself to it.  What did you think?"

Merrick:   "Is St. Paul and Minnesota the same thing?"

Matron (OMIGOD):  "Merrick.  You know this.  St. Paul is the city we live in and it's in the larger STATE of Minnesota."    She just let the whole 'is' 'are' issue go.

Merrick:  "Oh yeah.  I keep forgetting."

He starts fourth grade in the fall.  The Matron let the whole drive-desire-discipline thing go too.

The Matronly faith in her future -- humanity's future -- was further challenged at the movie.  No, it wasn't Bruce Wayne who bothered or the adorable up-and-coming Robin or slinky Hathaway . . . but the movie ushers.

Yours truly does not sit through a two hour movie without at least one bathroom visit.  This time, she assisted Merrick as well and waited for him outside of the men's room, where four ushers were huddled -- three young men and a woman, all late teens or early 20s.

Guy Usher One:  "You still going to XX community college?"

Matronly ears perked up!  These were her people!

Guy Usher Two:  "Who needs school?  My uncle has a government job.  Good pay, security.   And get this -- he's going to retire when he's 37!!    He's going to help me get in so school totally isn't worth it.  I can retire before I'm 40."

Girl Usher:  "That is so cool!  I want one of those jobs."

Guy Usher One:  "I told you that college was just a huge money suck.  Who needs it when you can cash out at 37?"

Guy Usher Two:  "Yeah, I'm going to sit on my ass and punch some numbers or mail shit, and then the party starts before I'm too old."

Girl Usher:  "More people should get these government jobs.  Who needs this reading and math b.s. they make you go through, when all you need to do is work for the government?"

Wait!  The Matron looked around, disoriented?  Was this the Soviet Union of the 1970s?  Kafka, reincarnated as a joke, precisely aimed at the Matron?

Nope.  America 2012.  She listened for a bit as the ushers plotted their futures, lit with the promise of fat government pay checks and the Miller Lite Festival that started promptly at age 37.  Of course, nobody articulated precisely what they would retire from or what branch of government they would be working for or what might happen if everyone did indeed decide to 'get these government jobs.'      Nor did they consider that reading, writing, calculating and basic general knowledge might be -- please must be -- required precisely for certain 'government jobs.'    But clearly, these young people believed that education was for morons who wanted to waste money.   Part of the career plot involved the utter dismissal of any intellectual endeavor.

Guy Usher Two:  "I actually sorta feel sorry for those suckers who waste all their money on school.  What a waste."

General agreement.

The Matron fully appreciates and tolerates the foibles and innocence of Youth, in general.  She too was once a young adult, scheming for the future and generally not knowing of what she spoke or schemed.  That can be forgiven.    The disdain for intellectual pursuits?

This saddens her but can also be forgiven.

Education is both ideal and big business.  The two bump up against one another to construct an impossible situation of sorts.  The ideal doesn't seem to die.   Indeed, ask any politician and you'll hear that educating our youth is one of our greatest responsibilities:  college!  The Matron doesn't even need to explain this as we all know-- going to college, getting an education, is a part and parcel of the American dream for our children (all children - this ideal knows few borders).

What's left unspoken here is that the ideal has shifted.  The ideal of education isn't mostly about knowledge for the sake of knowledge itself, but education as a means to a better life.  By better she means richer.  Education is mostly about money:  securing your position in the middle-class or moving into it, moving up, getting that dream job.  The 'better life' for you and your children is mostly about financial security and a little tiny bit about knowledge.  This is not what Locke, Hume, Mill, Rousseau and Wollenstonecraft had in mind when they helped (in their various historical eras) solidify the ideal of education that emerged during the Age of Enlightenment.  No -- theirs was about an educated citizen, that the well-rounded pursuit of knowledge was good for the spirit of the world, on an individual and collective level.   The pursuit of knowledge elevated the individual and society, created a more just, humane and sophisticated person and world.

The remnants of that original ideal and impulse are what politicians cling to and what we still recognize when we send our children off to college or otherwise extol the virtues of education.  They exist.

In practice, however, the ideals lose their luster.   The problem is that education for the sake of education itself -- the pursuit of knowledge -- is a financially disastrous endeavor.  Who can go to college simply to suck up everything there is to know about botany, philosophy or comparative literature?   

Do you know anyone?

Probably not.

Like most ideals -- honesty, love, faith -- education is shinier in theory than it is in practice.   Education is big business as much as it is ideal.  Those ushers?   They were onto something.  For if your definition of a meaningful life is about financial security -- and perhaps, belief in God -- why would you need to read Foucault or master calculus?

That, friends, is what the Matron got out of Batman.  Which is why her children hate going to the movies with her and like to wear headphones in the van.