The Middle Child

I don’t remember suffering

from middle-child syndrome as a child.

Probably because  the phrase wasn’t coined then;

And I didn’t know it was required of me.

In adulthood, and now I know it’s a problem,

I feel obligated to be a victim.

Yet as my sister points out,

“How can you be a middle child of eight?”

True, there are two of us.

Two middle siblings.

We are not only the middle of the family;

He is the middle of three boys

And I am the middle of five girls.

Double dose.

1947

Back: DeLoy, Lucy, Shirley, Lynn James. Front: Jerry, Jeanette, Carol & Verla

My two older sisters

Very different in temperament and personality

My two younger sisters

Very different in temperament and personality

Had issues

I didn’t even know about.

I was cushioned between the boys –

two older brothers and one younger.

OK, I was jealous of my younger brother.

Mama wrote in my babybook

“Baby Brother was born when Jeanette was a year and a half old.  When Mother first came home from the hospital, she wouldn’t have anything to do with her or the Baby either.  She was just sort of jealous of the new Baby, but it wasn’t long until she thot Jerry was pretty nice, he was ‘mine & Mamma’s baby’.”

In the winter of l938, Jeanette had been sick quite a lot.  Her ears had gathered and broke.  On the first day of spring, March 21, l938, we had to get Aunt Lucy to come up and stay with the family and take care of Jeanette.  I could hardly stand to go and leave her as sick as she was.  Daddy took Mamma to the hospital.  When we got there, the doctor said I probably wouldn't have my baby until nighttime.  So we decided Daddy would go back home and bring Jeanette and Aunt Lucy over so the doctor could check on Jeanette.  While he was gone the stork got real busy and brought him a fine baby boy for a birthday present at 2:12, Monday, March 21.  He was surprised, as he was only gone an hour or two.  He did think Jerry was a mighty fine birthday present.  He was born on Daddy's birthday.  He was a nice big baby weighing nine pounds.  He had blue eyes and light curly hair, which we didn't cut until he was nine months old, because it was so pretty.  And then, only because the men folks in the family insisted.  After that he was a real boy. Mama’s Own Story

I noticed in all our childhood pictures

after about one year,

that  he is nearly bigger

and definitely cuter than me.

How would that make you feel?

That baby you didn’t even want

not staying in his proper smaller place.

He’s made it up to me in our adult years

with kindnesses, hospitality and fabulous hikes.

When my oldest sister and I were compiling Mama’s history,

she wrote something about

She, Lucy, Lynn, and DeLoy were all

reared during the Great Depression

and grew up during World War II.

Now where was I during the Depression and the War?

(I think I took that part out.  Editor’s privilege.)

It slowly dawned on me that

I didn’t fit in with the younger or the older.

I blazed no trails

Built no bridges

Opened or closed no gates.

I wasn’t old and I wasn’t young.

I was a middle child.

Stereotypes about middle children are hardly flattering. They're often described as confused underachievers, overshadowed by older and younger siblings, and overlooked by their parents.

In short it’s where the older child gets all the awards, the younger gets all the love, and the middle gets nothing.

Because of the little attention he gets the middle child might start to think that he is not worthy of being loved which is otherwise known as the middle child syndrome. By M.Farouk Radwan, MSc.

Not suffering this affliction during childhood,

why does it come to torment me in Old Age? 
When I got to the age my older sisters

were when we started fussing over them,

they were older and needed more attentiveness.

No one noticed when I started hobbling around

or seemed to care that I was besieged with woes.

No one coddled me.

I ponder.

To be truthful.

I never thought I would get old,

I thought if I did yoga and exercised

my mind and body would function marvelously

until the day I die.

I thought if Mama had had yoga

she wouldn’t have suffered so much.

Oh, no, it doesn’t work that way.

It doesn’t matter how hard you try,

things happen;

Not just one thing but a myriad of things

beyond our control.

And yoga doesn’t help; it hurts.

It is no one’s fault;

Nor can I blame idioms.
It is my responsibility alone to endure 

with the gallantry and finesse 
befitting a Middle Child.