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July 14, 2008

I Watch My Children Grow Up Every Day, From The Top of my Piano

I keep my photograph albums in my cedar chest. Dozens and dozens of albums, all crammed full of pictures. Beautiful pictures of my beautiful children. . . pictures I loved. . . pictures that were calendar-quality!!!!! Pictures of my babies, and of my toddlers, and of my preschoolers, and of the first day of kindergarten. . . pictures of birthday parties and skating parties and picnics, and playgrounds.

Mostly, pictures I hadn't seen in years. Some of them? I'd forgotten they even existed.

That's why I was so excited when I got my wireless digital picture frame last Christmas. I'd wanted one desperately ever since I first saw one on display at Sam's Club.

As soon as it arrived, I opened that cedar chest, got out all of those wonderful pictures, started scanning them, and then I put them all on my FrameChannel account.

I took the frame out of the box, wrote down the serial number, and typed that in on FrameChannel. Bingo.

I've got over eight thousand pictures of my beautiful children in a random, looping slideshow, on my wireless picture frame.

It's the showcase of the living room. Nobody can walk past it without stopping and watching for ages. The frame even plays my Mp3's, so I've got a soundtrack to the memories of my life running 24/7 on the back of my piano.

This isn't an advertisement or anything. It's just a statement about the most awesome material object in my house.

When I stand and watch my wireless frame, I am watching my children grow up before my very eyes. I also see my parents, my siblings, our vacations, our pets, and, and, and. . . you name it. If it was precious to me, there's a picture of it on my wireless frame.

The sensation is indescribable. When I look at all of those pictures that had lain hidden for so many years, the sensation is just simply, well, indescribable.

My kids are in their twenties, but not on the back of the piano. There, any time I want, I can see my babies.

My parents. My brother. My sisters. All ages of them.

Any time I want.

If you are looking for a gift for someone you love, you might consider a wireless or digital picture frame. Seriously, if my house caught fire and all the humans and cats were safe, I'd run back inside for that frame. It's like another family member, because it's ALL my family members.

I love it. Sometimes, late at night when nobody's watching, I look at it and cry. Not the bad kind.

April 22, 2008

You Kids Sit Still and Behave


When I was a kid, my family used to drive down to Alabama almost every summer. We had relatives down there, and there would be canvas army cots all over the place at night. My Alabama cousins were many years older, and I thought they were adults, I really did. Cool, stylish, trendy adults. I think the cousin closest in years to me might have been twelve.

It is the trip itself that I want to talk about. And traveling peripherals.

This was before the time of the interstate highway, and the drive took us through every little town, middle-sized town, and city in southern Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, and half of Alabama. We stopped at the occasional little local restaurant, because this was also before the day of the big chain restaurants. This meant, of course, that most of the time the food was actually good. Our car did not have air conditioning, which meant that we rode with all the windows down. It also meant that Dad had a very sunburned left arm.

There was no such thing as carseats for babies or toddlers, unless you counted those little canvas seats that hooked over the back of the front seat, and when we were on vacation, the car was too full for one of those. There were no seatbelts, either. Two parents, four kids, and a grandmother in one '59 Chevy made a pretty full load.

There was no stereo in the car, either. Not even a radio.

Dad was in charge, and we stopped when HE wanted to stop. And if we needed him to stop, it was of vital importance that we never tell him we needed to stop. It made him mad, and he would drive even farther just to demonstrate that he was in charge. This never bothered me, because I could, even as a small child, "hold it" for hours on end, but it pretty much killed my Other Sister, who generally needed to pee every twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes from our house and she was not only asking if we were there yet, she was already asking to go to the bathroom.

Hub and I could never afford to take our children on a real vacation until the summer between their 3rd and 5th grade. That year, we borrowed my parents' van, mortgaged our financial future for NINE YEARS with a new Discover Card, and went to Disney World.

That's right; it took nine years to pay off Discover. NEVER USE THIS CARD. It has the highest interest in the universe. But I digress.

My point is, all my father and mother had to do to maintain almost perfect order in a vehicle was to turn around and say "You kids sit still and behave." And we did. We weren't buckled in, so sitting still took some real effort, but disobeying our parents was far worse than sitting still. We looked out the windows, and counted cows, and sang, and played word games, and napped. We ate only when Dad stopped at a restaurant, although we did travel with a bushel of fresh peaches; we loved to watch dad toss the pits out of his window.

On that trip to Disney World with my own kids, all we had to do was say "Sit still and behave." and they behaved. We didn't travel with toys, or vcr's. We looked out the windows and counted cows and sang and played games. Sometimes, the kids napped. Really, the only differences between our trip and my parents' trip were the seat belts, the cooler of fruit, the air conditioner, and the fact that we usually stopped when the children said they needed to stop.

Here is what I do not understand at all, not one single little tiny bit: why do modern parents supply their vehicles - and thus their children - with all the comforts of home? Why do families need movies, and toys, and a constant supply of snacks, for a road trip? Why do parents nowadays allow their children to dictate when they stop and where? Why don't parents tell their kids to look out the windows, count the cows, play word games, and sing?

My parents talked to us when we were on the road. A lot of modern parents couldn't talk to their kids if they wanted to, because the kids are watching Disney in the back of the minivan.

Modern kids couldn't tell you about the scenery because they never look at it. They demand the same comforts of a vehicle that they demand at home: television, toys, food, drinks, and their own way.

A lot of modern parents would gasp in horror if they heard another parent say "You kids sit still and behave yourselves."

When did it happen that road trips became such a big deal? Tons of toys. Baskets and boxes of juiceboxes and graham crackers and cheese and bottled water. Always with the water. I don't think most people these days have ever been really thirsty because they're never without a bottle of water.

We never had drinks in the car. We drank when we stopped. We knew what it felt like to be genuinely thirsty and we appreciated those rare drinks very much. There were no sticky spills and no crumbs or wrappers in my parents' car.

When we stopped to eat, we parked and went inside. No food or drinks came back outside with us. We ate and drank in the restaurant. And we appreciated it, for we were hungry. After we ate, we weren't hungry and didn't need any snacks or drinks "for the road."

I do not mean that families should travel without air conditioning, or that the occasional drinkbox is going to make the earth stop turning. But I do believe that with many families, it's gotten completely out of hand. With some families, the children are in charge!

We provide so much stimulation via toys and videos and other OUTSIDE sources that our children are never given the chance to learn how to entertain themselves from WITHIN.

It's certainly easier to just hand the kids a graham cracker and the remote to the DVD player installed in the minivan, than to teach your kids to obey you when you tell them to settle down and behave, and to entertain themselves by looking out of the window, or reading a book, or ANYTHING that doesn't entail bothering his/her siblings. If the means of entertaining himself/herself comes WITHOUT a theme song, so much the better.

And if the kids tell you they're thirsty, tell them they can get a drink at the next stop.

What's the matter with people these days? Let your kids get thirsty. Let them get hungry. Don't anticipate EVERYTHING because when you do, they don't appreciate what they get when they get it.

If they cry or scream for food or toys, etc, tell them to look out the window, and count the cows, and see who can be first to find a blue house. You might also practice turning around and saying, "You kids sit still and behave."

And if they don't obey you, you've got a far bigger problem than you might think.

(Cross-posted at Scheiss Weekly)

April 6, 2006

X-tremely Nostalgic

Why, oh why, for the love of all that is scared and holy, does the world insist on changing things that are perfectly good just as they are? I take is as a personal affront when the landscape around me changes without my categorical say-so. The burgeoning condo explosion in Minneapolis renders me positively unhinged. Someone decided it would be great to tear down my elementary school and build a new one, and I subsequently careened into a tizzy from which I have still not yet recovered. I yearn to find who is responsible for the offense and offer them a piece of my traumatized mind. How dare they alter the landscape of MY CHILDHOOD! How inconsiderate. I mean, really.

It’s the lack of warning I find so unsettling. If someone had told me my elementary school was being torn down, I could have taken pictures or something. I could have made a scrap-book (I have never in my life composed a scrap-book). But NOOOO. Now it’s too late. I discover these things after the fact. I drive down the street and come face to face with the new structure and the shock of a transformed landscape, and I am supposed to just shrug my shoulders and accept it. It’s not that easy for me. When I am left with only what memories remain in the not-so-reliable recesses of my brain, I worry that I won’t be able to conjure them up ever again. Memories like the smell of the old lunchroom (sour milk) or the monkey bars I used to do penny-drops from. They were painted green and badly chipped. I worry that those memories will disappear forever.

Last night Jim and I had a hankering for Ice Cream, so I made a run to the local DQ. I perused the menu and noticed that the Mister Misty is no more. Mr. Misty is DEAD with a capital “D�. Deader than a door nail. In its place is a totally extreme concoction called “Arctic Rush� which begs the question, what the Hell happened to Mister Misty, and why did no one consult me before knocking him off? Mr. Misty was perfect just the way he was.

When I was 9 or 10 years old I would scrounge change from my mother’s purse (sorry Mom – I had a short-lived stint as a delinquent that ended promptly when you said to all four of us in the back-seat of the car “someone has been taking money from my purse. I think I know who it is and I would like it to stop�. At the time I slouched and avoided eye contact, but 27 years later I can admit IT WAS ME!!!). I would take my pilfered coins and ride my bike to Dairy Queen where I would order a Mister Misty. Usually a red one. Then I would go down the street to Fanny Farmer and order a small bag of gummy bears, and sometimes some red licorice bits. Then I would eat my illegally acquired contraband treats in solitude and ride my bike home with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I attribute the nausea more to shame than to sugar. It was about that time that I learned that things taste much better when the acquisition of said things does not involve stealing from your mother. Shame really has a way of sucking enjoyment out of an experience. That lesson stuck with me.

So really, Mister Misty taught me that stealing is wrong, and that nothing good can come of dishonesty and general sneakiness. And Mister Misty is dead. You can see why I am so upset now can’t you!

Why does everything need to be “rush� or gush� or “huge� or “tiny� or otherwise totally insane and extreme? Some marketing executive somewhere figured out that as parents, we will accept nothing less than shockingly bright colored, reminiscently fruit-flavored, edible treats that go way beyond just tasting good. Those edible treats must be so totally extreme that they will make our children’s eyes roll back into their heads whilst catapulting their brains down the rabbit hole and into another dimension. All for an economical price that can be purchased in bulk. Now THAT’S extreme value.

Back in my day, we entertained ourselves by combining Two liters of Rondo, Sunkist, Dr. Pepper and Mountain Dew and calling it “suicide�. We felt quite riotous and rebellious drinking our brown-colored carbonated concoctions. And "suicide" was just a name. No one actually died. The negative outcome was limited to a nap-inducing sugar crash. At least we used a little creativity. Another game we played involved combining liquids found in the pantry (think liquid smoke, vanilla and peppermint extract) and daring each other to sip it. That was also pretty extreme. Extremely gross. And we were all GIRLS! I shudder to think what boys did for fun.

Arctic Rush. Fruit Gushers. X Treme Jello. So that’s what the kids are doing these days. Oh, my dear Mister Misty. If someone had the manners to ask my permission before they aced you, you’d still be around. Had I known Mister Misty was being laid to rest, I could have toasted his departure into the afterlife. Alas, it was not to be. Goodbye Mr. Misty. I miss you already.

January 29, 2006

Running away from home

When I was 5 years old, I threatened to run away. Some horrific injustice had been done to me and I just could not stand for it a moment longer. It was my duty as a child to fix this by running away. That would teach my parents the ultimate lesson: Mess with me and I am so out of here! (Thinking back, I am pretty sure this "grave injustice" involved cowboy boots, a mini-skirt with fringe, a tube top and 30 degree weather. See?! They were just wrong to not let me go to school in that.)

I packed my bag with essentials. My teddy bear, my favorite shoes, a box of cookies, my Donny and Marie album, and lots and lots of clean underwear. (Because really, do you want to be in an accident and NOT have on clean underwear? By 5 I knew this lesson well.) I was ready to hit the road. Get the heck out of Dodge. Damn the man.

I wrote a note that was both eloquent and precise. It went something along the lines of "You are mean. I am running away. You are so mean. You will learn not to be so very mean!" (You can totally see the inner future writer coming out in me!)

I left. Defiant and determined. (I am sure not only were my parents watching from a window, but every parent along the street we lived on was sneaking peeks at this little runaway.) I walked down the driveway onto the sidewalk. I walked until I hit a stop sign. I had 2 choices. Go around the block or stand there. I was not allowed to cross the street alone yet. I chose walking around the block. Before I knew it, I was back at my own driveway. Frustrated. My box of cookies gone and the underwear and Donny and Marie doing me no good whatsoever. I decided to try again. When I reached the stop sign one more time, I stood there and wondered if I should tempt fate and cross the forbidden zone. Dare to go where I knew I should not go. Where I knew it was not safe.

I chose one more trip around the block. By this time the suitcase was annoying. The teddy bear was out and no longer feeling so comforting and Donny and Marie with their sick smiles were just bugging me. When I reached my driveway I marched up defiantly to my Mom standing there smiling.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, Mommy. Have you learned your lesson?"

She smiled and bent down to hug me. "I certainly have."

"Good. Then I am going to come home now. But, seriously, Mom, let's think these things through in the future."

She supressed a laugh and took me and my things inside to a warm home with no judgment on my Big Adventure.

I am 36 years old with 3 kids. If you think there are days that I am not in the mood to run away, you are crazy! Especially now. I would love to run away to the comfort and non-judgment of my Dad's home where Mom's love is still everywhere and teach the big bad world a lesson in hurting me.

But I find myself in the same predicament. There is a huge stop sign and I know better than to cross the street alone. The stop sign in this case would be my family here. My babies. My husband. I could break the rules and run away. But it wouldn't work. So, I will just take my teddy bear and my many pairs of clean underwear and walk around the block a few times until the world learns its lesson. And one day, I will walk up the driveway to my waiting Mom who will have missed me and welcome me Home with open arms.

December 17, 2005

The true believer

When I was six years old, I tried to mess with Santa, and I lost. Badly.

Being a true believer, I was electrified with anticipation the night before Christmas. I could never get to sleep, I was so excited. That, and the grown-ups downstairs were usually well into the wine, and tended to speak over each other, loudly, until the wee hours of the morning. I was a jangled nerve ending of anticipation.

The excitement nearly caused me to implode. After finally falling asleep in spite of myself, I awoke before the sun. It must have been 5:00 a.m. Maybe earlier. It was so dark, I could barely see. I held my breath, careful to be quiet as I slipped out of bed and tiptoed down the stairs. I don't know what I was more afraid of. The dark, or each and every creak of the stairs as I stealthly made my way down the the living room. My three sisters and I each got our own chair on which Santa placed our gifts. I made my way to the chair that was tagged "Meghan". MY CHAIR! THERE WERE PRESENTS ALL OVER IT!!! SANTA HAD BROUGHT OUR PRESENTS WHILE WE WERE SLEEPING!!! It was too much to wrap my young brain around!. I was awestruck. I crept over to the plate of cookies we had left for him, and sure enough, he had taken a few bites. Holy cow.

My plan was to get a sneak preview of the bounty, and slyly make my way back upstairs to bed with no one the wiser. I took my time looking at each gift, delivered just for me by the big guy himself. When I had documented it all, I decided to creep back up to my bed. As I moved toward the staircase, I passed the chair holding my older sister Julie's gifts. Something caught my eye. A plastic red calulator in the shape of a school house. I picked it up in the dark. I pushed a button. It lit up. I couldn't add. I could barely read. But I wanted it. I wanted it because it was red and shiny and it lit up. It was spectacular.

Without a second thought, I plucked it from Julie's chair and placed it on mine. I was certain I was the first one to see the gifts Santa had left us, and what Julie didn't know wouldn't hurt her, right? Right! It was going to work! I knew it! Satisfied with my ingenious plan, I snuck back upstairs and into my bed.

I rose with the rest of my family an hour or two later. I did my best to act surprised. I "ooh"'d and "aah"'d like a pro. Happy as a carp in muck, I played with my toys. That is, until I realized something was a little off. My parents. They were whispering to eachother and looking at me from across the room. I was certain it must have been my expression that had aroused suspicion. I busied myself with my new goods and concentrated on looking excited and angelic and most importantly, nonchalant.

"Uh.....Meghan?" my mother cleared her throat.

"Yes mom?" I replied, as innocently as I could act.

"Daddy and I think Santa wanted Julie to have that red calculator."

"No. I think Santa wanted me to have it. He put it on my chair."

I racked my brain, trying to figure out where I had gone wrong. There was NO WAY they could know that. NO WAY.

"Meghan, Daddy and I are pretty sure that calculator was supposed to go on Julie's chair."

"Why would Santa put it on my chair if he wanted Julie to have it?" I tried in vain to up the ante.

"Meghan. Daddy and I think Santa DID put that on Julie's chair."

Uh-oh. How in the sam hill had they figured me out? I was completely baffled.

"Meghan, you didn't put that on your chair, did you?"

"No." I lied.

"Well, Daddy and I happen to know that Santa wanted to give that calculator to Julie."

"How do you know that?" I was grasping at straws. And I knew it.

"We just know. Now give Julie the red calculator."

I sullenly walked to Julie's chair and set it down. It had been mine but for a moment, and it had slipped right through my fingers. I was totally counfounded as to how my parents had figured me out. It was as though they had eyes in the backs of their heads. Santa DID see me when I was sleeping, and he knew when I was awake. And he had told my parents! Santa had totally turned me in. I had been left high and dry. In the back of my mind I started worrying about next year. I figured this was the end of the line. I would forever be on the bad kid list. No more Santa presents for this lying kid. And it was all my fault for trying to pull a fast one. Why? Why had I done it?

Fortunately for me, I found out the following year that Santa was either very forgiving, or had a very short memory, because I miraculously ended up on the good list AGAIN. It must have been by the skin of my teeth. I tell you what, though. I never EVER messed with Santa again.

November 10, 2005

Armageddon-Co and Apocalypse Club

Are you hungry? Want to take a look in the pantry for a snack?
Here. Put on a protective helmet. And take this flashlight and machete. You are going to need them. It’s a risky venture, opening that cupboard door. There are cans and boxes stacked precariously from top to bottom. Careful there. If you move that can of chicken broth, it could all come crashing down on your head. Just like “jenga� but with cans and boxes of non-perishables instead of small rectangles of wood.

When it comes to food, I am a hoarder. Plain and simple. There are two adults and one toddler in our family. Based on the contents of my pantry, one might think we are parents to at least 5 ravenous teenagers. We are not. One might think we live in a bomb shelter and are preparing for the big one. We do not. My name is Meghan. I am 33 year old food hoarder, and I am not afraid to admit it.

We went to Costco on Saturday. I spent three hundred dollars. I came home with two flank steaks, two large pot roasts, 5 pounds of boneless short ribs, two whole chickens, 6 pounds of boneless chicken breasts and a five pound package or chicken sausage. And that was just the meat section. There are two adults in our household. Two.

So why the scarcity mentality? I wish I knew. I was fed as a child. Every day. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. My mother cooked for us every single day.

My sisters and I did have to improvise every once in a while. We made our own bag lunches for school. When the cupboard got a little bare, we had to get creative. Like the times we made “Doritos� out of stale taco shells and table salt. Not so good. My younger sisters once made a seven layer cake of wheat bread, margarine and cinnamon sugar. Visually, it was a masterpiece. Their excitement turned to disappointment when they took a few bites and went into nauseated margarine overload. It looked like cake, but really, it was just heavily buttered bread piled up with cinnamon sugar. Hic. Excuse me. I just threw up a little in my mouth.

I used to make my own “mounds� candy bars after school. While watching “Inspector Gadget� in the kitchen on our black and white television, I would pile coconut and chocolate chips on a piece of saran wrap and cook it in the microwave until it became a bubbling, smoking, rock-hard lump. Then I ate it. Happily. I can only imagine what ingesting melted saran wrap fumes has done to my insides.

The good stuff went fast at our house. When my mother came home from the grocery store, we would make a mad rush to “help her with the bags�. The kind of help we offered was not altruistic. Oh no. We helped with the groceries so that we could take a silent inventory of the treats, and then stash the fruit roll ups and oreos away. We could then return to gorge on them with no one being the wiser. Our hungry, beady little eyes scanned the brown paper sacks. Bag of oranges… broccoli… cheerios….BINGO! CHOCOLATE CHIP GRANOLA BARS! There are eight, so I need to make sure I get at least four of them before Molly, Betsy and Julie spot them! If I act fast, I can do it!

Everyone was out for themselves. It was dog eat dog.

One time, I managed to be the first one to get to a box of Twinkies our grandma brought over. I stuffed my pockets and snuck out of the house. “I’m going for a bike ride!� I said as I slyly slid six twinkies into the basket on my banana seat bike. I ate all of them during my covert bicycle mission. I pedaled home weakly, and retired to my bedroom in a nauseated stupor. That was the end of my love affair with alll things Hostess.

Our father used to try to beat us at our own game. He hid cookies in the upstairs hall closet, behind a pile of musty sleeping bags. We always found them. It we were lucky, we got to them before the dank closet smell permeated the box and made them taste funny. If we got there too late, we typically ate the foul, stinky cookies anyways. It wasn’t about taste, it was about WINNING!

I suppose my food hoarding did have some historical rooting in the family culture that we all helped create. The scarcity mentality continues today. I just like to eat exactly what I want, when I want. My husband Jim loves leftovers. I let him eat them all. I have no interest in dining on food that was cooked yesterday. That is so, well… yesterday. I like to ponder what exactly it is that I want to eat, and then make it and eat it. This requires a well-stocked pantry and freezer.

If we are ever faced with Armageddon, and my family survives the initial attack, we could easily hole up and subsist on the contents of the pantry for at least 3 months. All we need is a can opener.

Let me think……hmmmm……Tonight…. I want……. pasta with pine nuts and brasied short ribs. Now hand me that helmet and flashlight. I’m going in. If I’m not back in ten minutes, call the fire department. I've likely been concussed by a can of garbanzo beans.

November 5, 2005

It's the New Meghan Townsend!

"It’s the new Meghan Townsend!" I proclaimed as I donned a new, huge afro wig and strutted my stuff all the way into the school dance. My High School peers jaws gaped down to their polo oxfords, which were tucked neatly into their tapered Girbaud jeans. They all fell silent. The only noise to be heard was Cris Cross’s “Jump!� blasting through the gym. They began whispering to one another and pointing. Oh no. Not again. In my effort to distinguish myself from my siblings I had made a mockery of myself AGAIN. Why were people always laughing AT me and not WITH me? Why wouldn’t anyone sit next to me on the School bus? Why did I feel compelled to eat my school lunch burrito sitting alone in a stall in the girls restroom? Why did that social service worker keep calling to ask about the cats gone missing from the neighborhood?

I guess it wasn’t THAT bad. But I was a middle child. Technically the second of four girls. I like to say that my sister Molly and I got shafted so badly that we even had to share the title of middle child. Just like we had to share everything else we ever got, from fruit roll-ups to chicken pox and head lice.

Middle Child Syndrome. The words conjure up images of a desperate, needy, neurotic Jan Brady-type. A clingy “me-too! Hey! Remember me? Hey! Wait up guys! Come on! Wait up!� kind of a kid. In a way, I suppose that is part of who I am. A person hates to admit that. But yeah, I am an annoying pesky middle child at heart. I feel it in my center. The need to be included. The desire for approval. Loathe the thought of being left out of anything. Like a dagger through my heart.

I have a distinct memory of asking my mother for ketchup on my bologna sandwich. I was about 4 years old. I did this because my sister Julie had asked for mustard on hers. What’s the opposite of mustard? Ketchup! I shall have ketchup on my bologna sandwich! My mother must have thought I was nuts, or at least lacked any sense of taste. But that is the way I thought it was supposed to be. My choices, even then, were dictated by someone else’s. I thought I had to be the exact opposite of my older sister. Not that any one ever told me that, mind you. It was an underlying assumption on my part. Four years old and already making an ass of u and me.

For much of my life, I had an underdeveloped sense of identity. If asked the question “So, who IS Meghan?� I probably would have stammered a bit and responded with “ummm... I don’t know. What do you think?�. This lack of self-definement is characteristic of middle children. I measured myself through the eyes of others. I watched for clues and gauged how I was doing by carefully monitoring the facial expressions and body language of the people around me.

I had a couple of “jail break� boyfriends. Guys I went out with because they had cars and could drive me places. They could drive me away from my house and my family. I also belonged to a gang of girls. We weren't a “Gang� like the kind that wear bandanas and flash signs. But we were a gang of girls in a sense. We were so close back then, we really kind of raised each other. At least through the teenage years. Most of those girls are my closest friends to this day.

I read on the Dr. Spock website that “Middle children...often learn non-aggressive strategies to get what they want, such as negotiation, cooperation, or seeking parental intervention�. I don’t remember beating my younger sisters up per se, but I do remember implementing tactics of full-on psychological torture. I would hide my sisters security blanket just to watch her sob in bereft agony. I would literally sit and watch my parents, exhausted from long days at work, as they searched high and low for her beloved dingy piece of fabric so they could put Molly to bed once and for all. I watched them frantically tearing the house apart, and envisioned her blanket, folded and hidden carefully under the cushion of my father’s favorite armchair. I watched them and chuckled demonically.

Deviant and sick? Why yes! That’s me! Deep rooted feelings of anger for not getting enough attention? Yes! And that is why I derived pleasure from watching my little sister shudder and weep in her suffering. MAN that is twisted. Molly, if you are reading this: I AM SORRY!!!! You were an innocent victim. My middle child comrade. I had Jan Brady syndrome, but with more sociopathic tendencies thrown in. I always ended up giving the darn blanket back, though. And surprising as it may be, I seem to have an overdeveloped sense of empathy as an adult. You might not have predicted that back then.

But I guess it’s not all bad. Apparently most middle children possess a well developed sense of empathy (aforementioned story of sibling torture clearly an anomaly, perhaps I will donate my brain to research). We make great diplomats. We are used to getting a bit lost in the shuffle. I also read on www.DrSpock.com that “Middle children take a general interest in getting to know other people...Middle children are often quiet about their needs; they may be more likely to withdraw than to make a fuss� (or perhaps resort to deviant behavior, which apparently was the case with me). So if I had learned to clearly express my needs (NEED LOTS OF ATTENTION!) I may not have had to work out my feelings of juvenile rage through insensitive sibling torture. I was doing the best I could with the resources I had at the time. So was everyone in my family.

Being our only child so far, Maggie will be spared the title of "middle child". If we are lucky enough to have another child, or even two or three more, Maggie will be the oldest. According to Dr. Spock, eldest children have their own unique neuroses. Overzealous parents, without other siblings to tend to in the early years, tend to focus more attention on the oldest child. Oldest children learn how to please their parents, and they do it well (subsequent children apparently learn to not give a hoot what their frazzled parents think). "Ironically, their very success often leads to anxiety: If being special hinges on performing up to high standards, what happens if they fail? To protect against this disaster, many firstborn children set even higher standards for themselves than their parents do, and, as a result, are rarely satisfied."

I do hope that Maggie grows up to be okay with who she is. I hate to think of her berating herself for not measuring up to some unattainable standard. To offer Maggie the best of both worlds (as a parent with only one child to focus my crazy on) I think I will introduce Maggie to her imaginary older sister. That way she can be both an oldest and a middle. Maggie, meet you sister Sara. She's real bossy, and she might beat on you every now and then, but she will take all the pressure off. Maggie, my love, you are now free to go through life as an empathetic, diplomatic middle child slacker.


October 25, 2005

Dear Mrs. Bevans

Dear Mrs. Bevans,

I am not sure if you remember me after all this time, but I hope you do. I have meant to write this letter for years. It's embarrassing that it has taken me this long, but here it is.

I was in your 5th Grade class at Lyndale Elementary. I was the one with a bad haircut who wore the same pair of jeans every day. I got in trouble for reading in class. I read in class most of the time.

I was very into Betsy Byers books, and "Where the Red Fern Grows", and "Summer of the Monkeys" and about a million other books. It must have driven you batty, but you were always certain to let me know you supported my READING, just not when I was supposed to be listening to how to add fractions. You made it seem like my pretty darn near obsessive compulsion for reading was a GOOD thing. You would suggest books for me and I usually loved them. You checked my eyes for tears when I finished "Where the Red Fern Grows" in class. When I got to that ending that tore your heart out. That was so bittersweet. It makes me sigh to this very day, thinking of those hound dogs, and the boy who saved his pennies in a coffee can in his barn, and the love that Dan and little Ann had for each other and for their boy master.

I have lovely warm memories of your classroom that year. The rest of my life at the time, not so warm and lovely. The 5th grade was a difficult time for me. My mom had gone back to work, and I was pretty much saddled with the child care responsibilities which meant I had to be home every day after school to watch my sisters. No play dates. Not that I had many. My best friends were my cousin Tiffany and Jenny, and Tiffany went to private Catholic school and that was the year Jenny decided she liked Amy Kibler better. I was friendless. And NO ONE wants to be friendless in the 5th grade. NO ONE.

Amy Kibler and my former best friend Jenny would terrorize me on the school bus. One afternoon they went up and down every aisle, whispering behind a "Fame" l.p. record. They would look at me and whisper presumably mean awful things about me to every single kid on the entire bus, all the way down the aisle. They probably said that I wore the same pair of jeans every day because they were the only pair I had. I tried so hard not to cry. SO HARD. But my tears betrayed me and let them know they had done it. They had hurt me. They had humiliated me and made me cry. There was a boy named Matt who was popular. He sat down next to me and said "Don't pay any attention to them. They're just being mean."

I still think of the kindness of that boy, and the compassion and bravery he displayed risking that. It could have been his social death. It could have made him the pariah of the school bus, sitting next to the dork that was getting her 5th grade ass handed to her in the popular wars on the school bus. God I hated that bus ride. Straight home on the bus every afternoon. 30 minutes of being on the losing end of 5th grade class warfare with that God Awful nasty Nancy Parsons, who along with Amy Kibler, seemed to have taken my friend to the other side.

I was so alone, and every day I had to face that bus ride home to take care of my sisters who didn't even care about my stupid bus nightmares. THEY had pants. Ungrateful brats. They got pants and they never had to ever DO anything but eat oreos and watch Little House on the Prairie in the dark of our basement. If my parents had paid me for my hours of latch-key services I may have been able to buy some fucking pants so I could stop being teased, but the needs of my siblings always seemed to trump mine. Someone always needed some fucking dumb-ass glasses or something. Stupid sisters. I wished so many times that I was an only child (and yes, I now realize that my sisters are the greatest asset I have in this life but at the time, hey, we were working for the same limited resources).

I was on the losing end of our own household trickle-down economics. Trickle my ass. There may have been a fine mist, but all I know is I never got my fucking new pants, which in turn led to the social impalement I received on a daily basis.

My bus torture continued. So did my long afternoons with my sisters. I tended to take out my frustration on them, and tortured them in turn. Then my mom would get home and yell about the mess I had made and something about how sick of kids she was after teaching the ungrateful urchins herself all day (she was a teacher too) and she was tired and yada yada yada.... There was not a whole lotta love in the afternoons at my house.

But that was the bus, that was at home, not your classroom, Mrs. Bevans. You didn't allow that bullshit in your classroom, and you called the ringleaders of social torture on their crap and I loved you for it. I am not sure how you cracked the code. But what you did was create an environment where I could actually learn. They should implement a special Maslow's Pyramid for 5th graders. Somewhere between self actualization and basic physical needs there should be a "not being tortured for having only one pair of pants" and that would be just under "learning fractions".

You met with my parents and came up with a set schedule of times when it was acceptable for me to bury my head in a book. You sat me down and pulled out my test scores (high) and laid it next to me homework scores (low and spotty) and pointed out the disparity. I wasn't stupid! I was just lazy! And you called me on it. You were one of the first people I recall telling me that I was smart. I so needed to hear that. I needed someone to notice me. And you did Mrs. Bevans. Thank you for noticing me. Thank you for encouraging my love of books and for convincing me that not only was I not dumb, but I was actually smarter than most of the kids in my class.

That was the year I started developing just a wee tiny little bit of self esteem. YOU seemed to like me after all. You were everybody's favorite teacher and you LIKED me. You made me feel like you even liked me a little better than Nancy Parsons and her minions, the instruments of pre-adolescent social impalement.

Thank you Mrs. Bevans. That spark you gave me lit a little fire that I still have burning today. I was in such desperate need of that little spark. Of all the teachers I have had, you had the largest impact on me. Thank you for caring. Thank you for being so good at your job. Thank you for not allowing social torture in your classroom. You are truly the best teacher I ever had. I know you lost your husband years ago and I was so sorry for your loss. I hope you have a lovely life because you deserve to have a lovely life. You made a difference in my life and I will always be grateful for that. You are a gifted teacher. I was lucky to be your student. My life is better because I was your student. Thank you.

Meghan

p.s. I have lots of pants now.

Originally posted on I'm Ablogging on September 5, 2005