I’d like to think I was a good kid growing up, but in recent years, my parents have been hinting otherwise. My mom even admitted to me not too long ago, and I quote, “yes lovebug, you were a shithead.” It was then that the stories started pouring out, which made me realize I was in fact, “the middle child.”
I actually didn’t become a middle child until I was eight years-old, but middle child syndrome is something you’re born with. It comes naturally. At first it’s probably called “younger child syndrome,” then it hits full force when you’re no longer the baby of the family. It hit me before my little sister was born, because if I had to share my parents, I would need to take drastic measures to get their attention. My older sister was a bit sweeter than I was, so I guess that meant I had to be the devil child.
Having a “middle child” in the family is like having two extra kids who are trying to get someone’s attention on a constant basis. The most used phrase my parents probably heard from me when I was little was, “Mommy! Daddy! Look what I can do!” Then, I would turn around and yell at them to “leave me ‘lone!”
I did one good deed, and that was when I was three years old. I was playing on the playground, waiting in line on top of this giant slide/jungle gym combo. I let someone go ahead of me in line for the slide, but then I ended up tripping and falling head first into rocks and suffered a concussion. From then on, I was never that polite again…especially not on the jungle gym.
I wasn’t so nice to my sisters. Actually, I was only nice when we were in front of our parents. It’s when they turned their backs that my sisters would get smacked in the face. When someone started crying, I would blame anyone but myself. It was usually my fault that we got into trouble, but my parents didn’t need to know that. Whenever I was caught though, I would cry like I was innocent.
Another bratty trait I had was constantly one-upping my older sister in every way. She joined ballet, then I joined ballet and had to wear a more sparkly tutu. She joined the softball team, then I joined the softball team and tried to be friends with her friends. If we ever took a picture together, I had to be the one to do the bunny ears. It was constant.
My mom told me the process it used to take to get me to go anywhere:
1. They would have to force me into the car to go, for example, to the mall. I would kick and scream nonstop.
2. When we got to the mall, I would get excited when seeing anything shiny or polka-dotted, and would take off running. My parents told me they had to put me on a child-leash after the first few runaway attempts, like a wrist-to-wrist deal.
3. During the shopping trip, I would throw a fit if my parents didn’t let me ride on the random horse kiddy-ride where you stick the quarter in, and then it basically shakes you for five minutes.
4. When my parents would tell us it was time to go, I would start wailing again and have to be dragged out to the car to go home. It embarrassed my parents so much, because people looked at them like they were abducting me.
That last example isn’t really a middle-child trait, that’s just the shithead in me.
Of course, it’ll come around full circle. That’s why I should probably get my tubes tied now. I do NOT want a little me running around, terrorizing other little kids, coloring on the walls, and screaming because I didn’t buy him/her an ice cream cone. If I do have a little me and they’re screaming bloody murder and I’m calling my mom crying, she’s going to laugh hysterically then hang up the phone. Karma is in fact, a bitch.