You know what’s Crazy? Middle children are crazy!
My middle child possesses all of these middle child traits and so many more. And If you have half a six pack of kids, like I do, then you know your middle child is more volatile than nitro glycerin in a blender.
From the very begining she was demanding.
Being the only girl in my stable of offspring, I had hoped that she would side step the middle child dilemna. I’ve always told her she was special, daddy’s little girl, the feminine apple of my eye. But my words are from France and my tongue forked apparently because she doesn’t buy it.
Like some cosmic science experiment of embryonic fusion, the genetic dysfunction of middle child insecurity oozes from her pores like Shaquille O’neill sweating at the free throw line.
She’ll sing as loud as she can while we try explaining homework to the older brother. She’ll tug on your sleeve while your busy doing abc’s with the little brother. She’ll stand up at dinner and recite the pledge of allegiance with a pork chop dangling from her lips. It’s like living with one of the three stooges, constantly trying to out do her last comic bit.
There is no point she will not argue, no fact she won’t contest. If Middle Child was on Tom Hank’s Island, he would have grabbed Wilson the volley ball and sailed his little outhouse into the sea years earlier.