Thursday, November 24, 2011

My daughters were showing me around the home they just moved into. One of the bedrooms, they called the “M” room. M for Mattie when he spends the weekend, M for Mom when she stays over and M for middle as it’s the middle bedroom.
After I returned home that word “MIDDLE” kept running through my mind. Middle room, middle class, middle child. Ah, that was what was nagging at me. Was there now a crack in my Mother’s armor allowing the middle child to show through for the whole world to see, even my children?
Yes, I was a middle child, sandwiched between the first born, only son ,who never did any thing wrong and the blonde, giggling, deep dimpled baby girl. Once I was the baby, but it lasted only one year and four months when I was suddenly bumped up under wonder boy and held there firmly by golden girl.
I fought a constant battle to get out of the middle and move to the forefront. Regrettably my ammunition was sadly lacking. I had fine straight hair that would not hold a curl no matter how my mother tried and believe me she did try and try and try. I had the Irish white skin that freckled and burned and peeled and burned again all summer long. My scrawny body racked with a bronchial cough from November until the following April. A weaker child might have just settled into the middle slot and made the best of it. But not, I. I had an abundance of stubbornness and spunk which lasted me until I donned the armor of motherhood, where I had a throne that was mine alone.
Am I now in danger of being ousted from this throne as my armor gets older and erodes around the edges? I’ll have to spend a night in the middle room and see if it caters to the mother , or the middle child in me, or maybe a little of each.