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.