MIddle Child Woes

It isn't easy being a middle child.  I should know.  I am one.  And so is the Professor.

Music girl is our middle child.

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I have written posts featuring Oldest girl and I have written posts featuring Imagination Boy.  I wanted to write a post featuring Music girl.

Turns out that all the best stories including Music girl seem to involve her older sister or younger brother in some way.

I've started writing a post highlighting Music girl's awesome uniqueness and I'm finding it nearly impossible to without using phrases like, "Unlike her sister." or "In contrast to her brother."

As a middle child myself, I want to scream about the unfairness of this all.

I had to stop writing this post and go apologize to Music girl.

I apologized for all the times and ways her middle childness has hurt her and I haven't noticed even though I think as a middle child myself I'm sensitive to the issues.

And then I sat down and wrote a post (read it here) just about her.

'Cause Music girl is awesome, just as she is, and I wanted to celebrate that.

Homework: old school or new school.

When did we turn into our parents?

Scene at our house last night. Oldest girl is at the computer writing a paper with her textbook in her lap.

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"I really wish my textbook had a control F feature," she sighed.

What's that, I wondered but didn't say.

The Professor laughed.  Ah, I thought, he is hipper than I am.

"It does," he said.  "It's called the index and you find it in the back of the book."  Okay so maybe he isn't hipper after all.

Sometimes we like to amuse ourselves by telling the children stories about the bad old days when we did homework

• without computers
• with typewriters
• and white out
• or pencils and pens and (heaven forbid) legible cursive writing
• and dictionaries
• and calculators that only added, subtracted, multiplied, and divided
• and logarithm charts
• and microfilche 
• and books and libraries
• and card catalogues

They find this amazing and lame and it reinforces their impressions that we really are ancient and out of touch.

Which is exactly how I viewed my parents.  My mom went to school in a one room country schoolhouse.  My dad was president of his high school slide rule club.  And they both walked uphill, 5 miles, both ways, in the snow, everyday to get to school.

So what I wonder is what changes will my kids be telling their kids about?

• lectures with powerpoint
• having to hand write exams

If you have any ideas what our kids will complain about to their kids, leave a comment.

How to get your kids to play the piano

I have found the secret to getting my kids to play the piano.

Suggest selling it.

Image courtesy of Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

In preparation for a major move we have had many discussions about what should and what shouldn't move with us.

Three years ago our piano teacher moved away and while we meant to find a new teacher it somehow never happened so the piano just sits, taking up precious space in the living room.

Until someone with a small child comes to visit.  I don't know what it is about pianos and small children but rare is the child who can resist banging on one.

That didn't seem like a good enough reason to move a piano across oceans however so tonight at dinner we discussed selling it.

Imagination boy was the only one who didn't think it was a good idea.  In fact he asked to be excused from the table so he could go play the piano right now.

He then proceeded to sit down at the piano and play the most beautiful, haunting melody of his own composition, made up on the spot.

I guess we won't be selling the piano.

After a decision

After a decision do you regret all the choices you didn't make?  Lament the road not chosen.  Is there a sigh of relief that things are settled or a sigh of despair that now you are locked in to one choice and regret of all the choices left behind?

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After six years in a house that I know was the right choice I still drive by that house not chosen and wonder what life would have been like if we had chosen that one instead.

Never mind the fact that the choice was taken out of our hands.

Sometimes I think I get so wrapped up in making the right choices that I put way to much confidence in myself and my ability to actually choose.

That house six years ago, was rented to someone else the day we decided to take a second look at it.  It's not like we could have had it anyway.

So I'll continue to research choices but in the end I need to accept that I have only so much control.  And as I sit and wait currently lacking the ability to make a choice, I give myself freedom in advance to be content after.

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This post is prompted by Lisa Jo Baker's 5 minute Friday, writing on a prompt for 5 minutes without editing.

Cultivate your Creativity

If you aren't being creative, you aren't fully alive.

Too strong a statement?  I don't think so.

During those mind numbing days of preschoolers, poopy pants, and perpetual laundry, I absolutely had to be creative at least some of the time or I would have lost my mind.

My creativity then took many forms, including but not limited to the following:

• I planned elaborate (but extremely low budget) birthday parties.
• I wrote my own curriculum for the church youth group I led.
• I painted murals on my kids bedroom walls.
• I cooked.
• I scrap booked.
• I found joy in stretching our budget as far as it could go.

  

  Image courtesy of David Castillo / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

My kids were (and still are) creative too.  I remember the first time Oldest Girl painted.  She stood at the easel with her little smock on holding tightly to the paintbrush as she hesitantly brushed some paint on the paper. 

Then she noticed that some paint had dripped on to her hand.  She immediately had to stop and go wash her hands.

It wasn't long before she got more paint on her hands.  Again she washed.

The third time she noticed paint on her hands she stopped and stared at her hands.  

She thought for a bit looking from her paint splattered hands to the paint brush to the paper.

Then she took the brush and proceeded to paint her hands, both of them.  Then she put hand prints all over the paper and proudly showed me her creation.

Oldest girl had it right.  Sometimes creativity means letting go of your expectations.  Sometimes it means getting messy.  Sometimes it means joy.

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This post was inspired by reading The Modern Mrs. Darcy's post “Unused Creativity Isn’t Benign. It Metastasizes.”

What you wear changes how people see you.

How you look changes how people look at you.

A few months ago I started wearing skirts almost all the time

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It wasn't like I had a sudden fashion epiphany.  Truth is that during my father's illness and after his death I did just a little bit too much comfort eating and now I needed to lose 20 pounds before I could comfortable fit into my pants again.

So I started wearing skirts because they were comfy.

And if you are wearing a skirt you need to wear an appropriate top to go with it.  And shoes.  And since you look so nice you might as well throw on a bit of makeup.  And do your hair.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm still a pretty low maintenance kind of gal.  I'm not talking high fashion here, just making a choice versus my former wardrobe of mom jeans and a hoodie or Dockers and a sweater.

The thing that surprised me most was the way people react to me just a little bit differently when I wear a skirt.

It isn't a huge difference.  I don't have the kind of figure or face that stops traffic or anything dramatic like that.  But it is a real and noticeable difference.

People smile at me more.  Clerks are more helpful.  More people engage me in small talk.  Doors are opened for me more (literally and figuratively).

And when I say people I mean men and women although I confess the effect is much more pronounced on men.

But the thing is, I'm not sure it is the skirts.  Truth is when I dress up a bit it changes how I feel about myself.  I smile more.  I'm more likely to engage in small talk.  I expect doors to be opened for me.

So how you look changes how people look at you, but how you act when you are feeling confident about how you look changes how people look at you even more.

The Comfort of being known.

It's been a tough time of year for me with lent and Easter and memories of my Dad's death a year ago and lots of uncertainty about our families future and general unsettledness.

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We had a Confirmation in our church last week.  It was a lovely service.  I'm not a big crier but I cried quietly during the service.  The Professor didn't say anything but took my hand.

As we drove home the kids asked why I cried in church.

Before I could form an answer the Professor answered for me, "Mom cried because when John makes Profession of Faith grandpa won't be there."

And I started to cry again.  Good tears not bad tears.  Because I didn't tell him that.  He knew.

This.

This makes me love my husband.

The comfort of being known and being understood and being loved.  That is the comfort of marriage.

Today I pray for my mother and all the other widows who struggle with the loss of that comfort at a time when they need it so desperately.