First, let’s start with ‘What is Middle-Child Syndrome?’

MCS is an emotional scarring condition.  A disposition that generally arises with the middle child of three children in a household. Middle children often lack the attention that the oldest (the most important child) and the youngest (the parent’s favorite child) receive.  Middle child syndrome is often characterized by: lack of friends,  inability to maintain relationships, extreme creativity (writing, music, art, etc.), an easy going personality, trouble choosing a career path, trouble maintaining a career, quick loss of interest in things, negative outlook on life, half-assing, and indecisiveness. Pretty darned close.

I had the misfortune pleasure of being sandwiched between an older sister who was pretty, popular and near perfect AND a younger brother who possibly had a near genius IQ, was a “mama’s boy”, and favored not only because he was the youngest, but also that he was the only boy.

I probably should go ahead and state that I love both siblings.   BUT, I still suffer from this syndrome, as I am constantly reminded, and I constantly remind them and my mother.  Speaking of my mother…she did a great job raising us.  My dad died at the age of 34, leaving my mom  with a 7 year old, a 3 year old (ME) and a 15 month old.  We all turned out okay. No incarcerations.  No drug or alcohol addictions.  We are all pretty normal, well sort of.

I always felt like the black sheep of the family.  In fact, I thought for most half of my life I must have been adopted.  When I questioned it, which was often, my mom would give me the brush off (surprise, surprise).  Oh, and my mom had a drawer dedicated to storing memorabilia from our elementary school years, saving all crappy artwork, report cards and awards.  The drawer also contained our baby books.  Well, at least two of them.  Oddly, I could not find mine.  I once demanded to see my baby book.  I figured if she could produce mine, it would be some validation that she was my biological mother.  She was quick to tell me that it must have been misplaced, but she would look for it and have it by the time I returned from school.  I eagerly awaited the moment I got home from school.  I figured the proof would be there and I could reluctantly admit I was wrong.  I clearly remember stepping off the school bus, seeing my mom standing at the front door, waving a little white book.  My chubby legs took off, at lightning speed (not really) to see my baby book.  As she handed my that book, I immediately noticed it was different from that of my siblings.  It was not wrapped in silk, hardcover, filled with locks of hair from my first haircut, or pictures from my childhood.  My book was paperback, stark white, and smelled of newness.  Giving her the benefit of the doubt, I opened the new book and immediately noticed something odd.  Everything written in that book was in the same color ink.  Suspicious.  Details of my toddler years seemed vague, some even inaccurate.  It was obvious she purchased that book while I was at school and forged it.  Yep, she lied.  I, of course, questioned her, calling her out on her deceitful act.  She finally admitted to her wrong-doing, making up some lame excuse about not getting a baby book at her baby shower, being preoccupied with raising 3 kids, blah, blah, blah.  That was the first time I told her I hated her.  She threatened to “bust my little ass” and then banished me to my room.  Nice.  Not quite the best way to comfort a child who still thought she was adopted.

There was also a bond between my brother and sister.  My sister was very protective of my brother.  Looking back it was probably because I made his life miserable.  More about that in another post.  Anyway, those two “ganged up” on me.  I sometimes got blamed for things I did not do.  I figured if I was going to take the heat for something I did not do, I might as well make up for it buy rebeling.

I remember the very moment I started to rebel.  We had just made it home from Food Town, which was later renamed Food Lion.  It must have been 95 degrees outside.  My mom drove a 1977 Ford Thunderbird with vinyl seats and an 8-track player.  My sister always sat in the front seat operating the 8-track, listening to the songs she liked.  My brother laid across the back window. Yes, the car was that long and that wide. I sat in the back seat, fat legs sweating, sticking to the vinyl, hot air from the windows almost blowing my face off, and constantly having my brother fall on me when my mom slammed on the breaks or made a sharp turn.  Anyway, after sliding out of the back seat, I ran across the yard to meet up my my neighbor, Mickey.  Mickey was a year older than me and I’m pretty sure he had made the decision to rebel early on in his life.  We climbed a few trees, threw rocks off his deck and trampled through my mom’s garden.  We grew tired of that so we met back up in my drive-way.  For some reason we decided it would be fun to take a stick and make designs in the window unit vents.  This was before the days of central air. The vent was designed to blow hot air outside, keeping the air cool on the inside.  My pal and I basically destoyed that vent.  Mickey went home.  I went inside to find my mom standing in front of the air-conditioner wondering why the air was no longer cool.  Hmmm…I went to my room.  What happened after that is alittle blurry, but I do know that when she found out what we did, she beat spanked me to near death.  Since she was not allowed to spank the neighbor kid, I got a double dose.  I deserved that punishment.  However, had that been my sister or brother, I bet they would have been lightly punished, maybe grounded from their prized possessions.  My brother-his Atari.  My sister-her mirror. 

I resented my brother and sister for many reasons, I’m sure of that.  So are they.   Why did they have to be so perfect?  Both were thin and smart.  Not me.  They get the thin and smart genes.  I get the fat gene, and maybe the mean gene.  Whatever.  I gave my mom a hard time by seeking attention, regardless if it was negative attention.

We are all adults now.  I look at our lives and how my middle child syndrome could have affected our lives.  I have an only child.  I figured it would be in his best interest to not have another sibling to be compared to.  My brother has chosen not to have kids.  I sometimes wonder if it is because I made his life hell.  My sister decided to have 3 children.  Perhaps it was an experiment of sorts.  Would her family dynamics be anything like ours?  Now she has a middle child.  Ah, ha!  Perhaps she will learn to see what my childhood was like.  He’s very much like me.  The rebel.  The outspoken one. 

I could go on for days.  Really I could.  But I’m not bitter.  Really.  But one things for sure…I still suffer from middle child syndrome.

Next post…MY FAVORITE TOYS followed by MY BROTHER MUST HATE ME!