Ode to the Middle Child

I’m a mother of three, so I have a bird’s eye view of one of the most talked about “birth order” scenarios of all time. The oldest. middle. The youngest.

My eldest and second child are both girls, two years apart. Eight years later, the child was born, a boy.

All of my children are very different from each other, yet each is strikingly similar to me. How did this happen? Starting to write about my children as individuals felt a bit eggshell. I don’t think there should be unnecessary comparisons between siblings, but how can we allow everyone to use their strengths and talents without making others feel lacking? It’s a delicate dance for all parents of siblings.

So I write with honesty and tenderness. Or at least, that’s what I would do to my kids, Wink.

I have written several times about my older and younger sons. My middle pointed this out to me. So I spent some time wondering why this was the case, why she noticed I wrote “more” about them, and why I have.

Here comes the age-old “birth order case,” the argument that states that parts of who we are as humans are created based on our status in the family. It would be wrong for me to say that I don’t see these qualities in my own children.

You know what they say. The middle child is the “easiest” child.

My oldest daughter is a born diva. She’s almost sixteen now, but has started telling all the other kids and adults “How about” It was pretty much the day she started talking, which as far as I’m concerned is too young for any baby to start talking, haha. My youngest is, well, as far as “family babies” go, he lives up to every cliché in the book. I left the room to put a blanket over him while he was watching TV on the couch. And he’s almost six years old.

So, look, they gave me a lot Material.

Then there’s the girl in my middle. “Gracie”. Gracie was born sweet, quiet, kind and helpful. Gracie never caused a stir or got into trouble like… Um……”other children’s ..ahem.

As a result, there were never many long, self-reflective stories to write about her. Instead, I write quick little updates about her on my Facebook page. How she restored a toy ride-on tractor that was “beyond repair”. How she completely replaced my laptop screen when I was ten and I couldn’t figure it out myself at thirty-six. The babies would run into her arms at the sight of her and squeal with joy at being near her. Although I see reflections of myself in all of my children, each of them has gifts that I simply cannot appreciate. Their talent is beyond my comprehension. As it should be.

When Gracie was little, I began to notice that she had an uncanny innate ability to fix things, to understand how things worked, to take things apart and put them back together. This surprised me because I have always been a “girly” type of person who would quickly shy away from anything mechanical or technological. She often puts things back together for me, or explains them. She becomes the plumber/mechanic/electrician’s helper whenever a male friend or family member is around doing something. Many times I hear them say, “There’s no way I could have done this without her.”

Sometimes I find small parts and pieces lying around the house and have no idea what they are used for. For all I know, it could be a toy, a distal component, or part of a transmission, but my little girl would take one look and say “Oh, that’s a clip of so-and-so” or “That’s over there.” ” blows my meager mind every time.

She was also born with a strong maternal instinct. She is a born caregiver and I would be a liar if I said I wasn’t one of the luckiest caregivers. Her brother joined the family when she was eight, and I was still a single mother, now with three children. She helps with everything. She was always there for me, lending a helping hand when I needed help, doting on her brother, and greatly reducing my stress. I burst into tears as I wondered what I would do without her. I can’t even. I don’t have to do this. There she is.

Sometimes I worry that she is too mature, too helpful, and that this might take her away from child things, “her age” things. This is not the case. There’s a definite maturity to her growth that I’m sure will be worth it. Everyone wants Gracie around. She is a doer who gets things done and then does it with a smile. She is priceless.

So she has been the middle child for almost six years. She reminds me of the kind of kid I once was. I’m also in the middle. She is easy-going and happy. I am those people.
But I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone as consistently happy as she is in my life. God knows I don’t know. I looked at her in awe.

In fact, I’m exhausted a lot of the time these days. Moody. Vicious. emphasize. After all I have three kids, haha. Sometimes I let life get the better of me. For the third time that day I looked at the sink full of dishes and I wanted to cry. I spend at least half the time folding laundry in anger. I feel frustrated, as we all do. I’m tired of always having to do the next thing. What follows is always at least twenty things.

Same thing last night. The children are in bed. It’s time to clean. The food is done and the coffee is ready. Hang out in other rooms and play a single-player game of “Where the Fuck Is?” this go”, along with a hundred items discarded during the day’s event.

I’m going to turn off the lights in the dining room. This is a dimmer switch with a small part on the end that you push or pull with your finger to make it go up or down. It fell down a few days ago and in my usual rush I failed to find it and maybe kiss it goodbye. Works without it, but doesn’t look as good.

So I went to dim the lights, and what did my fingers find? The widget is right where it should be, on the switch.

Even though people kept coming in and out of my house, I knew immediately who had found it, picked it up, and put it where it belonged.

Tears welled up in my eyes, tired and motherless.

I did what I always do when my emotions reach a point where I want to try and master them.

I wrote a poem.

I call it

“Ode to the Middle Child”

Someone found this part on a light switch

in madness
The most confusing of these is