“I think God was a beautiful dreamer…” ~ my 5 year old daughter, The Alchemistress

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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.

I may be naive, but I believe I have stumbled upon the antithesis of mediation.  If the objective was to take a rather chatty and comfortable couple and antagonize them separately until neither could see straight, then she performed beautifully.  There are a host of things, both reasonable and unreasonable, upon which my ex The Politician and I do not agree.  Unfortunately, the only common ground we found yesterday was that that meeting was a tragic waste of time.

Thought for the day…

I’m not sure what’s hotter, when a man bounds out of bed to ease a fussy child before you wake or when he brushes cereal crumbs off the sheets as he climbs back in without once groaning about the children’s haphazard eating habits?