Middle Child

I was a middle child. Well, I suppose I am a middle child.

I wasn't the oldest - with the coolest toys and the new music and the stuff no one else was allowed to have.

And, I wasn't the baby - that everyone oohed and ahhed over.

I was a middle child. And, even though "oldest" and "baby" children perhaps have issues of their own, I remember feeling insecure about my place in our family.

I see that struggle in my Max. My middle child.

I'll often find him sitting in the corner, or on his bed, or on a park bench - having wandered off all by himself, away from his brothers - when just moments before he was running and playing and laughing with them.

He'll just be sitting there. Alone.

When I go to him, and ask him what's wrong, he'll respond with a big sigh and say, "Nuffin', Momma".

But, I remember what "nuffin'" means.

I constantly wanted to be reassured. Affirmed. Reminded of my place in our family. I wanted to know that I wasn't just lost somewhere between the "oldest" and the "baby".

But, I never knew how to say that.

It only takes a moment with my Max.

I simply whisper, "I love you, buddy. You're Momma's special boy." And, I wrap him up in my arms.

And, with that, the irreplaceable, unique, one-of-a-kind smile of my precious middle child returns.

Unless, this middle child business has nothing to do with that smile at all, and he's really just happy as a lark because I told him I'd get his older brother for throwing sand in his eyes and spitting on him.

It's one or the other.