THE “M” ROOM
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.

LOVE REVISITED
The mother who held me and dried my tears was the same mother who swatted my bottom when I dumped a bowl of oatmeal on the dog’s head.
The father who took away my roller skates for three whole days was the same father who always let me win at Candyland.
The brother who closed me in a room with burning sulpher from his chemistry set, to see if I would turn yellow was the same brother who put the worm on the my hook when we went fishing.
The sister who ignored me when she was with her friends was the same sister who brought me a piece of cake when I was being punished.
The best friend who sat faithfully by my side every day of summer vacation while my broken leg healed was the same best friend who blabbed to everyone that I loved Tony.
The boy who hit me in the back of the head with a slushy snowball was the same boy who looked to me for praise when he produced the loudest burp in second grade.
The dog who chewed the arm off my favorite doll was the same dog who always greeted me with tail wagging and lots of slobbery kisses.
I am a survivor of love.