Long ago, the Matron traded in her Big University Theorist hat for a job at a community college, thanks to the growing brood of children.  She was schooled in the world of Idea, but Practice and Grind?  Not so much.

 This is far from theory, folks.  Practice.

 The course of her days at the community college level (10 day span):

45 research assignments
45 600-900 word research papers
23 6-10 page research papers with annotated bibliographies
27 creative writing portfolios including four pieces of students' best writing
45 short 'discussion posts'
45 quizzes


The Matron has nothing left in her beside "great' and "eliminate extra words."    She writes these words hard and furious, tries to add something more meaningful.

  Frequently, the students don't even read that.   Not because they don't care, but because they're at their jobs, taking care of children, or otherwise occupied with paying the bills.

Such is life at the community college.  She knows that there are others out there, slaving away at Big Idea and Theory.  She just hopes that trickles down while she's up to her pretty little elbows in "today's society moves at a fast pace" papers.

Indeed.

Moving Day

This is the Matron's house.

This is the house next door.

Scott and Lori left last night.  Their house -- decomposing garbage heap that it is -- was nonetheless theirs until the bank took over.    Lori was a bartender until a few months ago when a breast cancer diagnosis left her unable to work.    Her son, Scott, barely stumbled out of high school and now hammers nails for a living, doing construction for a friend.  

The Matron wishes there was a neat narrative for Scott and Lori:  good folk, hard times, and all that.   But in reality, what these folks were not?  Smooth sailing.   Let's just say that their house is the only one on the block defined by filth and chaos.

When the Matron first moved into the 'hood, Scott was about 11 and Lori had a hard-drinking, gun-toting, boa-constrictor owning boyfriend -- Casey (so not everyone's real name).  

Casey liked to show Stryker (then 6) his loaded handguns.  Casey let Stryker peek into the windows at the 17 foot snake nesting in the living room -- alongside the four, child-eating German Shepherds who (although related in various ways) did nothing but reproduce.

The entire group appeared to use the floorboards as a bathroom.

Stryker:   "Can I go to Casey's house and play with the GUNS and BOA CONSTRICTOR?"

Just what every mother wants to hear her son shouting out on a beautiful summer day:  can I play with guns and boa constrictors.   No, honey, you can't.

Casey had his own sons who sometimes visited.  That father made a big show of letting his two boys sling those guns (loaded?  unloaded?  nobody knew!)  on their belts and swagger around the front yard.    They brought the boa constrictor to the front porch and paraded the child-eating, biting, barking, German Shepherds up and down the sidewalk.

Those were good days. A bad day?  Add virulent, violent screaming matches between Casey and Lori  -- oh, and visits by Lori's older son, Mike.   Who was a meth addict.   Mike had another bad habit:  breaking into people's houses to steal stuff.  The two - meth and theft -- were a unit and meant Mike was in and out of jail (and in and out of half the houses on the block).

The situation was bad enough that the Matron could not allow her children to play outside unless this magic combination existed:  1) Casey wasn't home, 2) Casey's boys weren't visiting, and 3) Mike and his gang-banger friends weren't casing the block.  

For one awful summer, exiting the house felt like putting her children's lives on the line.

As part of this powerful learning experience, Matron did pick up a new savory insult, thanks to the mother of one of Mike's growing pack of children.   This is what you say to your ex-boyfriend at 2 a.m. -- screaming in the middle of the street works best:  "YOU SMALL DICK BITCH!"

Now that has a ring to it.

 Casey and Mike were perpetually moving on -- Casey and Lori breaking up and reconciling, Mike back in jail or living elsewhere. . . .until, finally, blessedly, both departures became permanent.    The day an actual truck pulled up to haul away Casey's snake and less important belongings, the Matron walked into her house and prostrated herself:  "I believe in Jesus!"

True.  Her children still speak in amazement of the sight -- Mom on the floor proclaiming love for Jesus.

Over the past few years, life next door settled down considerably.    Indeed, their lives settled into the sort of grind poverty and lack of education bring:   early mornings and late nights, defined largely by working for minimum wage.   Mike sometimes visited but now, drug-free, and with his wife and that particular pack of children (NO idea where the meth-encounter children are).   Scott held various steady jobs and brought home a case of Miller Lite on the weekends.

The Matron has been inside the house twice in 10 years.    The first time, she staggered out, stunned that anyone could live there.   It would be nearly seven years later and a cancer diagnosis for Lori that brought the Matron back into the fetid mess.    Because when your neighbor has cancer, you help them in small ways when they ask, even if it means bracing yourself, holding your breath, and touching nothing.

With the cancer, economy, and general spate of bad luck, the whole block knew that the bank was coming.   Still, yours truly was slightly unnerved last week when Lori told her that the end was near:  they had to be out, May 1.   Still weak from chemo  -- but alive, thanks to a Minnesota program that pays for breast cancer treatment for the uninsured -- Lori had to scramble to shove her life into green plastic garbage bags, boxes, and in the end, a pick-up truck.    She moved into a friend's apartment.  Scott -- who probably will never make enough money to really make ends meet -- moved in with his father.

The remaining two killer German Shepherds-- one of whom once bolted from the house and BIT the Matron, leaving a permanent scar on her arm . . .   at a nonprofit animal rescue.  

Although the whole block is worried about what will happen to the house, nobody's particularly sorry to see its residents leave, although everybody feels badly about it in a roundabout sort of under-involved way.

Still.

Every weekday morning at 5:30 a.m., the Matron pulls the kitchen shades up.  She clicks on the warm yellow kitchen table lamp.  She starts a kettle of hot water, coffee, and feeds the dogs.    Being the first one up is medicine for the Matron:  she needs that space, the ability to test out her bones and brain, scan the sky for the weather.

Every weekday morning at 5:45, Scott walks to his car, which is parked directly across the street from the Matron's kitchen window.   Every weekday morning at 5:46, Scott pauses as his car door opens -- to smile and nod (and sometimes give a little wave) to the Matron.  She imagines how he sees her --  the woman moving in the brightly lit kitchen -- a little yellow glow and movement in the black box of Minnesota morning sky.

She waved back.  Every day.

And the Matron will miss that.   Good-bye and godspeed, Scott and Lori.

Adventures in the Emergency Room

The Matron is a fan of Mondays:  her children go to school!

Mostly.

Last Monday, JJ Hill Montessori Elementary welcomed Merrick at 8:20 a.m. and spit him out at 9:30 a.m.    Yes, she received the dreaded School Nurse Phone Call, this time announcing that her child had a fever of 100. -- with a wee tenor of "how could you miss this, Mom?"

Merrick languished at home through Wednesday, in a state vaguely reminiscent of his Vitamin D haze.   The Matron, who likes occasional moments ALONE, was in her own state:  agitated.  She could not wait to send that child to school.   Unfortunately, Merrick's relatively languid, low-grade fever and discomfort spiked into tummy ache agony and Thursday morning found him at the doctor's office instead of in school.   With his mother, of course.

The pediatrician promptly sent Merrick to the ER, certain this was appendicitis.  The Matron, who has been down that road before with her oldest, knew enough to grab her favorite take-out on the way to the hospital.

Merrick, waiting for his mother's food at the restaurant:  "Aren't I an emergency?"

Matron (appraises her son):  "Not really.  You're not bleeding or choking, right?"

Merrick (umbrage, taken):  "Well, my APPENDIX IS PROBABLY BURSTING."

Minnesota Matron:  "You betcha."   That's just what we say here -- works for nearly every situation.

However, it would turn out that the Matron did not need to stock up on food or other hospital-stay supplies.  One ultrasound and x-ray later and the diagnosis:  poop!

Matron to doctor:  "But he hasn't been constipated.  All systems have seemed quite normal."

Doctor:  "Then he's a big producer--there's more waiting."

So they slumped home, Merrick still clutching his stomach and the Matron, in a thorough and complete funk on several time-wasting, bad-parenting, over-reacting levels.    She poured her son a big glass of Metamucil and pondered the many benefits of similarly sized wine.

Imagine her surprise when the phone rang and "Children's Hospital" popped up on caller ID.   Certain that she was about to be upbraided for something, she nearly didn't answer the phone.  Nearly.

ER Doctor:  "Is this Merrick's Mom?  Mom, you don't have to rush back to the ER after spending the day here, but . . . "

Let's pause here, to fully experience that gap between "you don't have to rush back to the ER, but" and what comes next.   How long was that gap?  A second between 'but' and --what?

 Forever can indeed be an instant.

ER Doctor:  " . . . the radiologist found an abnormality."

And the Matron sat down.

It turns out that Merrick has calcification around his adrenal gland.   That slim bit of information is all that the doctor would give her -- that and instructions to schedule another ultrasound, ct scan, and blood work as soon as possible.

Thanks to her highly efficient internet skills, the Matron has been able to come to some conclusions while they wait for the tests (Tuesday).

Calcification  =   Bad News.  Universally -- there is no way around this.   But calcification is also  a frequent companion to Vitamin D deficiency -- involving some odd imbalance of Vitamins D, K, and calcium.  An although calcification is also a marker for cancer, tumors of various incarnations, and autoimmune disease, the Matron has done what any sensible parent would do and has selected Door Number One -- Vitamin D--as the culprit.   She also discovered that repairing the Vitamin D deficiency with the mega-doses Merrick has been slurping causes . . . (drum roll):  constipation.

Damned if you do and calcified if you don't.

Still.  

Tests on Tuesday.   And that mistaken appendicitis diagnosis and half day in the ER?  Doesn't feel so much like wasted-time any more, but great good luck.

Have you ever heard the expression "April showers bring May flowers?"

Friends, April has brought only wrath.

Many years ago, the Matron realized that April was the month of crisis.  Calamity befell her sometime between April and May 1.    These were not small events, blips, but seismic on the life meter:  hospitalizations, financial disrepair, break ups, legal woes.

Yes, she has a dark side, not fully revealed here.  She's not yet brave enough to blog about these, but trust her:  your April has nothing on hers.

It all happens in April.

 Several more Marches ago, the Matron became aware that she should steel herself for the month ahead.  Existential crisis?   Astrologically scheduled for April.    Broken limb?  Same time frame.    She began preparing for April in November, marking each birthday with sage and prayer and asking for a reprieve.

Currently, April has been kind enough to skip the personal blow and be more collective, subjecting the entire state to a never ending winter.

Three times, the Matron has put away boots, parkas, mittens, and boots.

Three times, the Matron has retrieved these items from the basement.

There is good news here, in that she is not alone, suffering an April crisis of faith in some hallway, cowered.  Instead, the whole state of Minnesota suffers with her.

May.

Just 10 days and a life time away . . .

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.