Growing Pains

Okay, no one loves junior high school, with one exception.  I'll call that exception, 'Anna'.  Anna came home from seventh grade one day and said (and I am not making this up), "Mom.  I just love junior high."  But she is the exception to the rule.

Before junior high, life made sense.  I wore clean clothes, my hair was always combed (seriously, in an old photo taken while camping at Yellowstone, my hair was braided neatly and I wore a headband that matched my shirt).  We lived in a pretty blue house with a swimming pool.  We were boy scouts and girl scouts.  We went on vacation every summer.  My father worked relatively close to home and my mother was a teacher.

I was a good girl and felt sure that my teachers, neighbors, aunts, uncles and grandparents loved me. I did well in school with minimal effort and I won foot races and spelling bees.  When I got into trouble it was for mild misbehavior (tattling, not sharing, answering back).  If something or someone upset me, I could easily find an adult to give me sympathy along with a warm hug and like a Band-aid on a skinned knee, I felt better.  Life was good.

Then I entered seventh grade and everything changed.  My parents were divorced and we'd moved to a smaller house in a different neighborhood.  It was a nice house and a nice neighborhood, but it was different.  Suddenly my clothes didn't fit without the benefit of safety pins.  I was too tall and too thin to wear anything off the rack.  Mom purchased an enormous box of Wate-On and I was expected to choke down six of the dry, chalky tablets every day.  I wore braces that always seemed to have food stuck in them and I began to get pimples.

Now school didn't work the way it was supposed to work.  I understood little of what the math teacher was saying (base 12? slide rules?).  I couldn't get my locker open and was always late to class.  For the first time in my life, I had teachers who seemed annoyed with me.  Friends I had had all through elementary school were different.  They had grown up over the summer, dressing in a way that was foreign to me.  I was still wearing tennis shoes and knee socks but they were wearing kitten heels and stockings.

I had lived a charmed life and without warning, I had fallen from grace.  The contrast was stunning.  I lost confidence in myself and spent most of my time playing catch up.  In those days I blamed it on my parents' divorce, but I now I know it wasn't the divorce.  It was adolescence and I wasn't alone.

The Life of Tracy

I walked into my seventh grade science class and slipped into my chair, plopping my books on my desk.  As I leaned onto my elbows and put my chin in my hands, Tracy walked into the room.  She smoothed the back of her dress with her hand as she sat in her chair.  She smiled as she said, "Hi" to the girl in the desk next to hers.  I ran my tongue across my prickly braces.  Had I remembered to brush my teeth this morning?

The teacher took roll and then asked a student to collect last night's homework.  That was the first time I had given my homework any thought since class the day before.  I heard the smart, "snap" and watched Tracy use the silver end tabs to open the rings of her binder.  She removed her homework, refastened the rings and handed the paper to the student collecting homework.  When he came to me, I shook my head and began picking dirt out from under three of my fingernails.

I shifted in my chair to relieve the slight poke I felt in my side caused by the safety pin in my waistband holding up my skirt.  I checked out Tracy's pastel plaid dress and modest white sandals.  I pushed my feet further under my chair.  I decided I would wash the Keds I was wearing when I got home.

I rested my chin on top of my two stacked fists and peeked over at Tracy.  She sat with her back straight, her hands folded neatly on her books.  She crossed her ankles and tucked her feet to one side.  She had a dark blonde page boy that never flipped up, but always curled under.  I pushed out my lower lip and blew the bangs out of my eyes and thought I might try to trim them after my shower this evening, after I washed my Keds.

I was in seventh grade over forty five years ago, yet I still think about Tracy from time to time.  Whenever I have a clean house, folded laundry, completed lesson plans, gas in the car and dinner in the oven I think I am living the life of Tracy, and I like it.  Other days I spend hours in my backyard drinking cosmos and working crossword puzzles, while spider webs, weeds, and dust bunnies collect all around me.  I am a work in progress, and after all, Tracy had a head start.

Nothing Special

I was reminded today of some of my early childhood developmental shortcomings.  I heard the stories (already told 37,638 times) of my difficulties in learning how to tie my shoes, and in learning how to tell time.  Those stories prompted memories of my struggles in math, my inability to find my way out of a paper bag, and my ongoing confusion with left and right.

For the last couple of years, I've suspected that I might be average.  Here are the clues I've gathered (in addition to the facts listed above):

     1.  My husband is much smarter than I am
     2.  My four children are much smarter than I am
     3.  My siblings and nieces are much smarter than I am
     4.  My friends are much smarter than I am

The indisputable evidence of the four points above are varied but include games of Trivial Pursuit, college acceptance letters, bi- (and on occasion tri-) lingualism, on-the-fly math calculations (without benefit of calculator, paper, or pencil), creative writing skills, athleticism, awards, trophies, ribbons, musical ability, people starting sentences with the word, "remember" when speaking to me, and most importantly the use of the word "cute" to describe my thought processes.

My conscientious parents consistently reminded me of how special I was when I was a child.  I had believed for much of my 55 years that I was a bundle of untapped genius.  As an adult, while I was busy working, child-rearing, cleaning, and wasting time, I was smug in the knowledge that although I hadn't yet done anything spectacular, I was a ticking time-bomb waiting to explode with unsurpassed talent that would be admired by the world, once I took some time to develop my God-given gifts.

When my children were of an age to more or less fend for themselves for a few hours each week, I began to dabble.  I took violin lessons.  I registered for Spanish classes.  I joined a volleyball team.  I signed up for a painting class.  I pursued a variety of interests, with disappointing results.  Hours of lessons, classes, practice, homework, and lectures led to a shocking discovery.  I did not possess a hidden talent.  My parents had lied.  I am unique, it's true.  But being unique does not, in fact make me special.

So what do I do with this new discovery?  What is wrong with being average?  I can't answer those questions, and it's been difficult for me to accept my place at the top of the bell curve.  I've always suspected that not everyone is born with a spectacular talent.  Some are born to clean the house and prepare the meals while those who are special, change the world.  I always thought that I would be the flower and someone else would be the stem.  It's time for me to feel the glory of the stem.

God is Love

Is love genderless?
Is love exclusive?
Can love hate?
Does love kill?
Does love seek revenge?
Is love selfish?
Is love an imposing?
Is love judgmental?
Is love powerful?
Is love stronger than hate?
Can love change the world?
Is love forgiving?
Is love joyful?
Is love hopeful?
Does love take sides?
Is love generous?