Growing up Middle(ing) - Part 3 - You were a Mistake!!

Family photo out-take - everyone Smile!

I’ve barely covered the younger years of finding my Middle Child (MC) vocation in our small universe. Being told, "You were a mistake!" Flailing through life and somehow still alive (remember – no seatbelts). Choices I’ve made not always mentally sound and yet sometimes leading to unexpected surprises (many failures and years to locate and ensnare my second husband – Ed). You’re bound to get it right on occasion!! I also realized that my initials – CM – is – MC – backwards! Coincidence? I think not!! The one thing that has remained true to my inner-middle-child is that humor has aided and abetted me in the most troubling of times. Humor is a sustainable natural resource!!

Not sure if we are praying, playing hide & seek or hiding our heads in shame?

One fun part of doing this series of MC introspective is looking through all the various photo albums, or better yet, badgering my mom to find photos that I can’t locate. Turning her world upside down. I no longer write her notes – but now text her to a fever pitch which in itself is quite threatening. When I feel she isn’t responding quickly enough to my texts (virtual notes) – I call her to “press” the issue. I do love irony/ing! She recently sent me a text photo with a Post-it note on her end table that said:

Why did I only get the OCD gene?

Apparently, I got the Post-it Note gene from her. I also got the, “Ignore that Post-it Note gene!”

Another note Mom saved. Not sure why I needed her to buy me guns and a holster?

These images bring back so many memories – or should I say – my enhanced version of memories. Some good and some not so good. Careening down memory lane is a chance encounter with happiness or pain depending on who or what you stumble into. My family all have their own interpretations of growing up and each account is unique and true to them. A slight variation on the same theme or event. As a result of jogging my questionable memories, looking through dozens of photos has exacerbated my MC self-esteem issues and feelings of inadequacy, disappointment and failure. I see myself tumbling back into old routines of saying, “I’m sorry” or “I never do anything right” etc. etc. Tendencies of inefficacy and powerlessness and self-deprecation. Old habits die mercilessly.

I’ve mentioned this in my Memory Loss blog that my recollections are often very different than my families. Excerpt below:

My Memories!!! Fact or Fiction? 

It doesn’t’ matter if it’s true or not – it’s what I remember! How I remember! Is it wrong? I don’t think so. If you play the game “Rumor” by whispering a short rumor into someone’s ear and then they pass it along to the next person, etc. etc. – that rumor doesn’t resemble the original one at all! I equate my personal stories to this Rumor game – what I remember can be a completely different “rumor” to the other participants. It happens all the time when I’m with family and relate a story from my past. My mother or brother will pipe up and say, “Colleen, you are completely wrong. That’s not what happened.” I whole-heartedly believe that I am not wrong – I just remember it differently. Memory is subjective and my memories don’t always mesh with other family members, husband, friends, etc. My husband thinks I “embellish” our stories – but do I? In my mind everything is embellished and magnified! That’s just how my brain and personality work. It’s the same story – but told by ME!! I’ve never denied my melodrama and flair for the sensational! I was an actress for crying out loud!!! Practically everything I do is a performance and I expect applause!

I’m a middle child of 5 – second girl. 

1. Sister

2. Brother

3. ME

4. Brother

5. Brother

My memories never sync with my other siblings or parents – but I believe, as a middle child, my stories are absolutely true in my teeny tiny yet spectacular universe. Middle children go through life as if they are on LSD 24/7. Our memories are all “Magical Mystery Stories” because that’s how we get through life as “Not quite as good as the First Child/Daughter or Second Child/Son.” I’ve never done LSD – but I think I know it’s effects!!!

I’ve decided at 64 (almost Medicare age) – that I don’t give a rat’s ass if my stories are different from others. It’s what I remember and I’m sticking to it

My first wedding was magical! We marry young in Maine!

My cousin Rodney and I were a happy couple!

When the first dance ended - so did the marriage!

I love this picture!

My sister recently pointed out that our father – Roscoe – was a middle child. That makes so much sense now. Dad and I were close, and I have inherited many of his attributes: balding, humor, denial and self-destruction. Some of it good and some bad. No wonder we bonded – solidarity/strength in numbers! I love/loved my father very much and vied hard for his attention. I loved to make him smile. Dad will be his own blog. I miss him so much, but I know a therapist would salivate over our codependent relationship. I’ll just let my good frenemy “Denial” take the lead for now. I don’t have time to repair all my issues. 

MC Memory 1 - One story that can only be told from my perspective is my real-life version of the Alfred Hitchcock movie, “The Birds.” My grandfather (Mom’s dad) was a potato farmer. His well-kept farm and home included the typical barns and sheds. One of our visits was just a normal outing for all but one. As everyone exited the car and raced to the house to see what Grammy had baked for us – I lagged behind. It started with one barn swallow swooping down invading my personal space. I kept moving until another one joined in this game of WTF. Next thing I know there is a nightmare ballet of barn swallows descending from the heavens to perform a Swallow Lake on my head! A frenzied swoop of dive-bombing birds was snatching pieces of my white-blonde hair and scalp as if easier to start at the top and work their way down to this little piggy said, “Wee, Wee, Wee all the way back to the car!!”

No wonder I cut my hair short now!

Screaming, I did a reverse zig zag maneuver for safety. That house got smaller and further away as all thought and reason left my tiny little brain. It took a while for me to time it just right for the life-threatening slow-motion marathon to their house – but I eventually managed to slam their front door shut while birds splattered on the glass (I made that part up – I loved that movie). The moral of this story is: “Don’t expect your family to rush to your defense when a bunch of crazy-ass barn swallows are hungry for blonde bird-nest fodder.” I assumed that the demise of the middle child was just a part of growing up in northern Maine. Eliminating (by freakish chance/accident) an aggravating and annoying offspring justifies the loss. When you have a family of five or more – the odds are not in your favor for survival – unless you are the fittest or the fastest!

MC Memory 2 - My grandfather was the eldest of 12. His parents were also farmers and lived up the road from Grampy’s homestead. I was always nervous and uncomfortable when visiting my Great Grandparents (GG). GG Hamp was a quiet man but very tender-hearted towards the kids. GG Sade was – let me be brutally honest – terrifying. She was not warm and cuddly like my Grammy Doris. At 65, I can’t blame this woman for her less than welcoming attitude. She birthed 12 children without reliable medical care (I assume she

There is nothing glamorous about picking potatoes!

had little to know help in birthing all those babies – except local farming women). She also lost some of them. They were hard-working people and had no down time to mourn because they had fields to plant, till, tend and harvest. They were not well off and so they worked harder to support their enormous family – counting the days until their children were big enough to help in the fields (age 2 – they could walk). I grew up in a farming community with potatoes as the primary crop. Maine was the leading potato state way before stupid Idaho (sorry Idahoans – it was a brutal competition until you won – still hurts). We have far superior and sweeter potatoes. Just sayin!! (More on potato picking to come in the next blog.

When you entered my GG’s house – there was an unheated enclosed porch. This porch contained one of two frivolous feminine passions of my staid, sober and unyielding GG Sade. She had a huge hutch cabinet filled with a unique and fun Salt & Pepper collection. Since she made me nervous, and I did not want her glaring eye to find fault – I spent hours in that freezing or steaming room – pending the season – memorizing her huge entertaining collection. I couldn’t touch them, but I was enchanted by them. It gave me insight into this woman that I was related to and feared. Jump forward 30 years – and I now have a Salt & Pepper collection of around 200 (which might get its own blog). Her collection was split up amongst all her living children when she passed – even though none collected. I was able to find a large portion of the S&P’s that she accrued. So, I did inherit that one fanciful hobby gene, but I smile more. Gives me solace when I look at them. I’ve also mentioned in a previous blog that my sister, Bridget, was GG Sade’s favorite. I believe she actually smiled when she saw Bridget. This woman baked the BEST cinnamon rolls I’ve ever (almost) tasted. Meaning – when you’d enter her home, the sweet mouth-watering smell of cinnamon, sugar and bread made you dizzy with hunger and excitement. I would ignore the S&P collection entranced by the aroma. BUT, as we all entered in anticipation of the reward of that heavenly treat and Bridget was duly fawned over – GG Sade would announce, “You all must wait until Bridget has her cinnamon rolls. She goes first.” Bridget didn’t lord it over us or consume the huge tray of rolls by herself – but the favoritism did dampen our (my) enthusiasm. At least I had my tiny little solitary corner on the porch!

My Great Grandparents 50th Anniversary! She's smiling!

MC Memory 3 - GG Sade’s other passion was her “Parlor.” She had a very utilitarian simple home – but she had one room that was out of a magazine or movie – in my eyes anyway. The only caveat was that we couldn’t go in this room – ever! It was filled with velvet covered loveseats and homemade tatted intricate doilies draped in the center on the back of the sofa. Everything in the room was perfectly curated and maintained and in this time capsule of late 19th – early 20th century style. It was charming and magical and out of my grubby grasp. The only time I was allowed entry was when my GG Hamp passed away. She had his casket viewing in this “Parlor” for all attendees to say their goodbyes. During a lull, I snuck into the room and crept inside. I had to touch that velvet sofa but was hesitant to go near the casket. This was my first funeral and I had little to no knowledge of what death meant. I was too young and was more interested in the furniture and pretended that there wasn’t a dead body two feet away. Next thing I know – I’m being hauled up by my GG Sade - hands under my armpits – and little legs dangling – she quickly approached that casket and waxen figure. GG Sade shoved my body inside, face to face with GG Hamp and she screeched, “KISS HIM! KISS HIM!” I think I blacked out. I don’t remember anything after being mauled and forced to kiss a waxed version of someone I knew and loved. I remember the smell of cloying sweet perfume (formaldehyde) and make-up. I never set foot in that parlor of horrors ever again. I also have a phobia of funerals and wakes to this day. My end-of-life directive is cremation, and a wake is forbidden. Put me in an urn with a picture of me on it – with eyes that follow you as you walk by. I told Ed to place that urn on the mantle in the living room so I could keep an eye on him when he brought some floozy (woman of ill repute) home!!

Maybe GG Sade was trying to toughen me up for all life’s laborious lessons and as a MC thought I needed an extra boost of, “Life is hard – now deal with it!” Not all life’s surprises are parties and presents! 

MC Memory 4 - I loved it when I had a loose tooth!

I'll do anything for attention!

Wiggling it back and forth with my tongue until it was being held by a strand of gristle. Grampy was hardened to farm life and tying a string (with who knows what on his hands) around my loose tooth and (with my permission) yanking it out gave him pleasure.

I'll do anything to get a smile from Grampy!

He wasn’t a warm and cuddly grandfather (like his mom), but a rare smile would appear when I gleefully opened my mouth wide and he pulled my bloody tooth out. My masochistic nature derived quite a bit of joy with his bespoke attention and DIY dentistry! 

I love and adore this woman!

My grandfather saved most of his smiles for - my grandmother – Doris - who was my idol and favorite person in the whole wide world. Angels sang “Halleluiah” amidst the stars when she was born. Visiting her brought joy to all of us. I plan on doing an entire blog extolling her beauty inside and out. Tricking us into churning her butter or ice cream (they had cows) did not deter us from doing her bidding. I would have gleefully allowed those psychotic barn swallows to peck all my hair out if she had asked me. Turning an old wood handle 10 million times for a pound of butter was my priviledge!

MC Memory 5 - The early School Years! Because of my October birthday, I was about a year younger than most of my classmates. We did not have Pre-K or kindergarten – but were thrown right into first grade with the expectation that we weren’t idiots, knew our ABC’s, some knowledge of numbers and our teacher’s expectations. Pampering children was not a way of life in the olden days. There was no integration into this social/educational system. We just had to put a tourniquet on our wounded psyche and child (man) up! 

Not jaded yet - I still look happy!

Even though I lived in Washburn – because of the area (countryside) I resided in - we were shipped to a village called Crouseville. We had to bus past the Washburn school and travel another 20 minutes to our little red schoolhouse (yes, it was the stereotypical “Little Red Schoolhouse!”). It was comprised of 2 large rooms. First and Second grade in one room and Third and Fourth in the other – with one teacher per room. I went to this Little House on the Prairie school for 3 years before they terminated the obsolete school (and teachers).

We had Mrs. Adams our first 2 years. She was not a tenderhearted individual. If you like sharks, then you’d love her smile. It was insincere and predatory – and she smacked her lips when she had cornered her naïve, trembling and tasty prey. I’m not sure of her age – but I believed she was about 300 years old when I entered school and only staved off aging by consuming the innocent souls of her pubescent students. It seems like she mentioned that she’d taught my great, great, great grandfather – but I may have mis-heard? Or did I? I recall Mrs. Adams as having big teased red hair (wig?) with dark cat-eye shaped eyeglasses and red lipstick. She did not tolerate insubordination - meaning: Abide by her rules or suffer the

First grade - so sweet and innocent.

humiliating consequences. Her bloodlust was sated by her innocent pupils unknowingly breaking her unwritten rules – that changed daily based on the offense. For example: we had a set time to go to the dark, dank, haunted bathrooms in the basement of the building. If we had to use the “facilities” off-routine, we would notify her by raising our arm with either one finger or two fingers - which announced to both grades what we needed to accomplish in that scary basement facility. That raised flag of “pee or poop” was embarrassing and we were too young to lie about our intentions. No one wanted to go downstairs alone – so if you raised your hand – you needed to go badly and soon. There was one time that I’d been holding my tiny bladder and the urge to pee for as long as I could before I slowly and self-consciously raised my number one finger. She pretended not to see me or my finger for quite some time. I wasn’t interrupting a lecture because we were in a study period. But eventually her enormous red head lifted and over her cat-eye frames locked her dead eyes with mine. She loudly barked, “What do you want Miss McIntosh!” Even though you were told the rule of quietly raising your hand, I had to publicly declare my bladder issue by saying, “Mrs. Adams, I need to go number 1.” After an eon of rusty wheels cranking while maintaining her glare, she said, “NO! You’ll have to wait until recess.” Shortly after having an agonizing (silent) conversation with my screaming bladder – the floodgates opened and spread in a yellow hot stream of betrayal and defeat to the chairs around me. Crying tears of shame and lost innocence, I was chastised for all to hear and forced to clean up my mess and my soggy panties. My bladder had sold me down the proverbial river of urine and I learned a powerful lesson. Never drink water, never advertise my fingers intentions and never trust Mrs. Adams. My only other infraction was getting caught chewing gum. That capital offense ended up on my nose to remain until end of day. I witnessed another persecution in a classmate who was tried and found guilty with a lengthy prison sentence. I can’t remember his egregious wrong-doing – but she made him sit in the garbage can next to her desk in front of the class. He was a well-fed child and wedged himself thoroughly – and could not reverse this action. It did not illicit giggles, but a numbing solemnity of empathy. Knowing that it could be any one of us in that garbage can and praying this was a one-off penalty. When she finally released him from garbage jail – he was unable to remove his bottom and we all watched in horror as his beet-red face broke out into a torrential sweat - and without our aid – shimmied his way to freedom. I never forgot our teacher’s horrendous treachery. I feel ashamed that we all didn’t rise up and storm her desk in solidarity with our fallen/wedged comrade! 

Mom took annual pix of our first day of school.

When I finally reached third grade – with a new teacher – Mrs. Clarke – I felt short-lived relief. I should not have released my breath so soon. She must have previously been in the military as a Marine’s special ops scout sniper. I also believe she had augmented features – because she could hear a piece of paper whisper as it was handed to the next student and eyes camouflaged amidst her gray hair on the back of her head. This woman had eagle-eyed precision marksmanship when hurling an eraser projectile at your head – with a cloud of chalk dust as her smoking gun. I remember she launched a pencil at a male student – end over end – with the eraser hitting its mark – right between his eyes! She didn’t want to maim the child, just get their undying attention. She could also crack a ruler over your knuckles as if wielding a bull whip. That woman never missed her target (victim)!! But she certainly missed her calling!! 

Mom also took annual sibling pix - most of us are smiling.

Back in the 60’s, corporal punishment was a common and educational form of discipline. The teachers in my initial years were not only fond of this freedom of physically abusing their pupils, but we also suffered emotional abuse that had a lasting effect that helped mold our virgin psyches. It certainly fed my MC fears of fitting in, being liked and being noticed. It was “attention” that I learned to avoid by amping up my sparkling wit and charming personality to annoying levels of treacle. It made it harder for a teacher to challenge you if you were being funny, agreeable and a consummate suck-up.

I believe both teachers excelled in their studies on the Spanish Inquisition and got an A+ for applying that knowledge while training young minds to toe the line (I always thought it was “tow the line” – as in towing the line of authority – I get idioms wrong all the time).

We are still smiling - just wait until the later school photos!

I remember liking my classmates and when our little school’s doors were barricaded shut (and the demons exorcised) – we all moved to the larger and scarier Washburn school district. These “citified” students were a tougher crowd. A lot of us knew each other from summers spent at the local swim hole and all the parents knowing each other’s families. We all took swimming lessons and spent every day of our short summers frolicking in this pond. But, for some reason, these same childhood friends became tyrants and bullies once they crossed the doors of Washburn District Grade School. Lots of cruel teasing and pulling of pigtails. But I do have good memories of recess, hop scotch and jumping rope with a group of girls. We had fun. I barely remember the teachers in middle school – but don’t have any burning scars from them either (or I buried the scars so deep that I’d need an exorcist to banish them).

Was I going for a model or majorette look?

I made friends and enjoyed the next few years until Junior High. I had one friend who was too popular for her own good. We were best friends – until we weren’t (her edict). Some individuals held more sway over the hordes of the hormonal angst-riddled populace. Believing they were untouchable and forever idolized. Be careful you fledgling narcissists, because there is always an understudy waiting in the wings praying, “Break a leg – B**ch!” More on these narcissists in a future blog!

MC Memory 6 - Junior High was uneventful, except for a couple incidents. Our principal, Mr. Harper, was respected because he was built like a line-backer in a suit and crew cut. But boys will be boys (as all male teachers would say and justify). I remember one incident at my locker. One of those boys got a little handsy one day – just kidding around – and with no

Practicing for my acting resume shot!!

control over his raging hormones - grabbed my yet to be developed boobs. I was not pleased and slapped him to send a message, “Don’t touch my boobies without my permission and not until I decide you are worthy of doing so (and they grow beyond a AAA bra)!” Unbeknownst to us, Mr. Harper witnessed this assault and flew to my aid. He can move fast for a big guy! Next thing I know – the boy is being slammed up against the lockers over and over again. He was short for his age, and he was being tossed around like a rag doll. Mr. Harper was verbally emphasizing his displeasure on every bang. I was frozen in shock and dismay as my classmate finally slid down the locker to the floor dazed. No bones were broken but I don’t think he ever grabbed a boob again – at least publicly. I did not condone this form of punishment and surprised that the “boob squeezing” got attention from an adult in charge. As a female in the 60’s/70’s – you got used to never being listened to or taken seriously when harassed (unfortunately – this has not changed). But I was very uncomfortable with the violent display against my locker. The “boy” and I became good friends through the remaining school years and to this day keep in touch. I think my little slap was sufficient punishment. Mr. Harper was, of course, only doing his job – rule through fear.

I was Harry Potter before Harry Potter!

Another slap event was with a girl. We were friends but as adolescents, our brains had not yet developed logic and the art of making good decisions. Once again, I don’t remember why she was mad at me. She was quite the spitfire and had bigger balls then any of the boys in our class. I was in a classroom when she assailed me with, “Just because you’re a McIntosh, you think you are better than the rest of us!” That statement really pissed me off (said on more than one occasion)! We live in a very Hatfield/McCoy town and even if you hate your family – no one is allowed to vilify your family. Only family can disparage family. My friend was not following code – so I patted her cheek enthusiastically (slapped) and said, “Don’t you ever say that about me or my family ever again!” We eventually made up and apologized, but I’m the only one authorized to lambaste my kin!!

All teens have insecurities when you have ranting and raging hormones. Some of my fellow students thought me arrogant and snobby. In reality, I was self-absorbed with my middle child insecurities, bodily fluctuations, braces, pimples and low self-esteem. Too busy navigating the tiny halls of Washburn middle, Junior and High School to placate someone else’s ego. Teens are aberrations. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde abominations! We have little to no control over our words and actions. Teenagers are mentally unsound and should not be held liable for those 7 years of mayhem.

I’m going to stop at 8th grade for now. High School is a chapter/blog unto itself. Being Middle(ing), periods, boobs, boys and finding my calling were all part of the High School years. The terrible teens were exhausting! But not as exhausting as the Menopause and my Senior years!

I think I was going for sultry and mysterious - but got creepy!

Don't forget to read Parts 1 & 2 on Growing up Middle(ing). Plus I have plenty of other hilarious blogs - revealing all my messy wobbly-bits - mentally and physically!

The High School years - Part 4 coming soon!

"There are countless books competing for readers' attention, which is why the power and importance of book reviews cannot be overstated. They serve as gateways to a book's world. And offer potential readers insight into what they can expect. Plus, book reviews are crucial for discoverability, marketing, and boosting sales, especially for indie authors."  By Barnes & Noble Press/Blog

I would really appreciate some reviews. Amazon takes them VERY SERIOUSLY and it really helps my ranking, relevancy, algorithm and ego.

Please tell everyone that my book is available on Amazon - Menopause the Horror, Humility, and Humor of It All!

Thanks again for your support and encouragement. I am so humbled by your kindness. You are forever my Super Hero’s!!!

Remember – Women Ignite and Women Unite! 

Thanks for taking the time to read my book and my blog. Tell all your social media friends, family (middle children) and followers.

Let’s be Friends!!

Colleen McIntosh