The Middle Child

Being the middle child isn’t easy.  That is something I learned at an early age. First is the oldest child. They are the darling one the parents dote on when born and then make all the mistake while learning to be parents (or not).

Then comes the second child. Now that they know the binkie on the floor isn’t going to make the kid deathly ill, they pick up it, rub it against their clothes and give it back. The parents are now comfortable but their focus is still on the oldest who is learning all the wonderful things. Meanwhile the second child is stashed in a baby seat to entertain themselves.

Along come the youngest who gets a lot of attention just by being the bady and the only boy. They will remain the perpetual baby if the last of the children. The one who gets away with everything simply because they are the youngest.

Meanwhile we older kids are told to “look after your brother” which allowed mom time to cook, clean, or grabs a few minutes of relaxation. We never wanted to look out for the youngest who was always in the way and demanding our attention. Unless we were bribed or paid for that service, we would do things like make mud pies and feed them to him. And yes, he ate them willingly.

Being the middle child meant you were the forgotten one. The one who was expected to follow the older child and just do what was asked. Being the middle child meant that everyone paid attention to the oldest and the youngest and forgot you were there. Being the middle child meant you were invisible.

What I learned from being invisible were things like self-sufficiency and relying on no one. That leaving home and making my way in the big bad world without my parent’s help, unlike the other two, wasn’t all that difficult if I worked and managed my money. I was also the one who returned home to take care of them during their old age and eath. I found the time to take care of the parents who forgot I was there, unlike the other two who waited to get what they wanted without lifting a finger to help me or their parents who gave them everything.

Do I sound bitter? Well, I’m not. Just disappointed in how I became the caregiver and the one who picked up the pieces during death while the other two went on as normal, seldom visiting unless they wanted something.

But that isn’t what this story is about. This is about that one time when I wanted and needed attention but didn’t get it. The time that pointed out how much I didn’t matter in my family or the world for that matter. The time I learned I was on my own and to expect nothing from any of them.

It was Christmas and I was eight years old and in third grade. Second grade hadn’t been all that good for me. My handwriting was a major problem, and my teacher gave me lower grades on all my work because of what she called chicken scratches. Even when I did my best, it wasn’t good enough, and she would give me lower grades.

Not my fault my hands wouldn’t do what my brain told them to do. Or maybe it was because my brain was working three steps ahead of where my hands were—either way, my writing wasn’t good then or now. Typewriters and computers became my best friends in high school, making my work readable, sending my grades from average to the top of the class.

Anyway, in third grade I finally received an A plus on a story I wrote. It had my best handwriting, and an original story, and well-drawn pictures for illustration. This was something I to be proud of for me.

I got the story back just before Christmas break. I knew my grandparents and aunt were going to be here, so I saved the story to show them my accomplishment My aunt and grandmother were both teachers and I hoped they would be proud of what I had done.

The big day arrived. I let the other two show off all of their things before asking my Aunt would look at what I’d written. She said, “In a minute.”

When I asked my grandmother to look at my story when my sister went to get something, she said the same thing. “In a minute.”

I watched while my sister, the oldest, got multiple things to show her. My brother was picked up and cuddled and passed between the two women, and talked to as I patiently awaited my turn to show them then only thing I felt they would be interested in. The excitement from earlier seeped away into a sensation I couldn’t define other than sad and excluded.

After what seemed like forever, I backed away from where the two women were sitting, turned, and trudged away. The heaviness that filled me made each step more difficult that then last until I needed to pull myself up the last of the stairs. I forced my feet to take me to my bedroom. I stared at the story I still held. My fingers began by ripping off a corner, then progressing to shredding the story no one but me cared about into slivers of worthless silliness, making sure no one would ever see it again. My finest work and all I got was a good job from my mother who was too busy to stop and read it, a later from my father and in a minute from my grandmother aunt which never came.

Christmas—a day I had learned to dread. Never getting what I wanted while everyone else did. Not even the scanning of a silly, stupid story that would have taken them less than a minute.

From the gifts I got, I was an afterthought, after getting everything the other two wanted, they remembered me, so I ended up with cheap junk toys because they had no money left. The same with my clothes. I got all the discards from my sister and nothing new. My dress this year was the one my sister had worn last year with new lace and a new ribbon for the belt. Everyone else had new clothes, but not me.

When my story was in pieces, I curled onto my bed and cried myself to sleep. There was no reason to return to where I wasn’t wanted, aware that no one would miss me until time to eat. That was another three hours away from what Mom said before I came to my room.

Three hours. My nap took up an hour. I spent some time staring at the ceiling before I dug out my favorite book and began to read, going to a world where I mattered. Where I was the heroine. Where I did wonderful things and people noticed. Where I had friends.

Even in school, I was the forgotten middle child. The one who did as they were told, didn’t create problems, and faded into the background. That meant being the last one picked for teams and then put where I would stand, out of the way, not participating. Not that anyone, including the teachers, noticed.

Anyway, someone finally missed me. Must have been the empty chair at the table. I decided to not answer, putting my book up and turning my back to the door and pretending I was asleep. Only it wasn’t my mother or sister who came to get me. It was my father.

“I know you aren’t asleep. Get up and get downstairs. You’re holding up dinner.” His harsh voice sent skittering scared down my spine. No concern as to why I was even in my room. Then again, maybe they had become desensitized to my sudden departures from the family gatherings by now. This wasn’t the first time I’d disappeared and no one noticed.

Being the good little girl, I joined the family at the table. I wasn’t hungry but took enough of what I liked from the bowls of food so that I wouldn’t be forced to eat more. Playing the game, I spread out the food so it looked like more than it was, then took my time eating before turning down dessert. During the meal, I kept my head down and didn’t speak unless asked a question.

The only question I was asked was from my grandmother.  “What was it you wanted to show me earlier?”

“Nothing important.” My reply was mumbled and she went on to something else, leaving me with a pain that would never go away.

That was another thing I learned. Silence. Even if I had wanted to say something, I would have been told I was interrupting, even if no one was speaking.

What I learned that day was that I was a nobody. A nobody who was blamed for what everyone else did but didn’t want to take the blame. Like the new toy my brother broke. I was asked why I broke it. When I said I didn’t and was upstairs in my room, I wasn’t believed. My punishment—banishment to my room for the rest of the day.

When the meal was over, I grabbed two book and the few things I had gotten, leaving the doll my brother had already torn apart for him to finish destroying, and went to my room. I went back to my book, leaving the house where I wasn’t wanted or needed to travel to other worlds, becoming the heroine who had people around her who liked her.

This was a major lesson is how to be independent. I learned to do my own thing and ignore the family who ignored me. Since I was never a part of the family, I spent most of my time alone—reading or daydreaming.

My greatest revenge wasn’t planned or even considered as revenge until later. As my parents aged, I saw that my sister and brother weren’t about to help them, so I moved to be near them, providing them with the support they needed. That got me the primary position in my parent’s will. The others who wanted this that and the money ended up with a thousand dollars.

Meanwhile, I ended up with the house, their savings, the life insurance policies, the annuities, etcetera. I got it all just by doing what was right.

And guess what? I was finally noticed. The other two began to be nice to me instead of sarcastic. They didn’t ignore me, hoping to receive bits and pieces of my parent’s estate.

Now this may sound petty, but I refused to share. Why? Here’s what I told them.

“You two had the benefit of all the attention you wanted while growing up. You had all the things you wanted and kept coming back for more. But when it came time to return that attention and help your parents, you became too busy. I left a good job and came here to help care for our parents. Meanwhile you couldn’t be bothered.

“What’s funny is that both of you live here and couldn’t drive them to the store or stop and get them something on the way home. You didn’t have time for the parents who gave you all their time. Time that I never got because they were too busy with you.”

I won the stare down with my brother, who was ticked because he was finally getting told a truth he didn’t want to face. My sister just gritted her teeth, not saying what she wanted, unwilling to make me angry still hoping to get what she wanted.

“I, who was like a third left foot, took the time to take care of them while working a full-time job with three or more on calls a week and four teenage children to care for, so I don’t need your excuses.”

“Simply by doing what a child should do, I was rewarded. And no, I didn’t ask for a darn thing. Just the opposite. I took money and got them things they needed but couldn’t get on their income. That included food, diapers, a maid to help clean the place when I found I didn’t have the time and they couldn’t keep up with the cleaning.

“So now you want this, that, and whatever. My answer is “no, you aren’t getting it.” You took your inheritance in bits and pieces over the last twenty years while I asked for nothing during that time. Unlike you, I borrowed a thousand dollars and paid every bit back with interest. How much did you pay back of what you borrowed? According to Dad, less than a hundred with each occurance. You would make one payment then quit. Also, according to them, you got your fair share of the estate over the years of them buying you cars, giving you requested money and buying the things you wanted but wouldn’t save the money to get.”

My sister started to open her mouth, but my glare told her to keep it shut or I’d make her return what she took the day of the funeral. Same with my brother. That was when my siblings realized the middle sister they thought was a pushover wasn’t.

My years of watching, learning, and building up my strengths (and handwriting still isn’t one of them), I gathered a strength they didn’t know I had. Being the middle child, meant being forgotten while a child, but as an adult we are the independent ones. The ones who become the child the others should have been, self-sufficient but caring. One who would do what was needed for the family who forgot about them while they were growing up. The one who showed they loved their imperfect family no matter what they did.

I learned that I was the one my parents were most proud of—the independent child who returned to help them as the aged. The middle child who never forgot the pain of that Christmas day, but also never forgot that my parents did the best they could. I was the unspoiled one who showed that they cared when needed the most. Like the thousand dollars had I desperately needed at the time and took me a year to pay back.

That is love and respect. I remember. I won’t forget. But I overcame and returned the help I got ten fold over while expecting nothing but ended up with everything, including my parent’s respect, appreciation, and love.