So it’s Middle Child Day today, 12 August 2022. (At least it is in the US. And I’m not even in the US.)
Apparently we’re supposed to celebrate the middle child in our family. A special day for the one who is, by definition, not special.
That’s all very well for a family of three. But the moment it grows any bigger, the middle child is undefined. Bang goes our one moment to be special. Are there two middle children in a family of four? Are there two or four middle children in a family of six? That’s not special, either way.
I think of myself as a middle child but at best I share that dubious honour with my sister Prue.
Theoretically (who dreamed this up?) I might be suffering from middle child syndrome. But I’m not. Because I’m part of a majority. Because when there are six, the oldest and the youngest have their own battles to get attention. Because families are way more complicated.
Or perhaps each of the middle children in our family got one aspect of middle child syndrome, enabling us all to have our own distinctive personalities.
Or perhaps this is 50 per cent fact, 50 per cent as true as astrological fortunes.
Love my sisters. Love being me. In our 70s and 80s we are just us.
But by all means, do take me for a frisbee throw in the park today or deliver my favourite food as a Middle Child Day treat.