As Matriarch of The Burrow I am received with certain deference(s). For example, when the daughters converge in our dressing room the Boomer gets first chair at the vanity table, then Gen X and Gen Next daughters. Like position “chairs” of an orchestra, under conduction of legacy, we move in order despite protests of “But I’m almost finished!” or “I have an order to what I need to do and you just ruined it!” Their concert of rolling chairs yields to my entry.
I get the green chair closest to the hairdryer, the curling iron, the flat iron, and the clock named Moshi. Flashing colors and replying “Good Morning” to my greeting, Moshi reminds us that we are all once again, late. We step up the tempo, exchanging shoes and jeans and last minute approvals of what is presentable to the outside world.
One last peer into the mirrors we stand, three generations staring back at us before we move in and out of various exits. Like meercats we bob in and out of the burrow: retrieving the forgotten phone, bluetooth or homework page, before the dust settles and the dogs can no longer hear our cars down the road.