My Little Middle Man

I know how it happens, that thing they call “middle child syndrome.”

Baby #1 is born into responsibility and expectation. The role model or leader (if by nothing else but birth order) for all that may follow.

Then along comes baby #2. Baby #1 assumes his/her role and is praised as a wonderful older sibling while baby #2 cozies up in the spotlight.

That is…

Until baby #3 drops the curtain. Baby #1, at this point is somewhat self sufficient, can mostly make sense of their surroundings and emotions and generally can be a big help with new baby number #3. Baby #3 is helpless, noisy and has just the right amount of squish to soak up any left over attention. So where’s baby #2?

Over there, still taking too long to put on their shoes, still a bit clumsy, still working through what it looks like to appropriately express themselves.

There’s that middle child, trapped in a world that wants to hurry them along to a place or age where they might be easier or have it figured out. Trapped in a world that simply doesn’t have time to deal with tantrums, separation anxiety or messes.

I’m so sorry, my little middle man.

When I first found out you were a boy I instantly had these visions of what it would look like to have a son. That special mama’s boy bond, my strapping 16 year old mowing the lawn, teaching you respect and chivalry, my grown man coming home and wrapping his little mama in his solid arms and bending down to kiss the top of her head.

The truth is, from day one I haven’t understood you. You went against all bullet points in the rule book and made me rethink everything I thought I knew about parenthood.

Was it your traumatic entrance into this world? Was it because we co-slept? Did I wait too long to ween you? Night terrors? Growing pains? Allergies? It had to be something.

There is nothing and no one on this earth that can more quickly reduce me to tears of anger, frustration and, consequently, regret in the way I handle the situation. But there is also nothing and no one else that can make me belly laugh on my worst days, or melt me into a puddle when you open up enough to show affection.

I’d trade everything I own for your quick kisses or to feel your little hands around my neck.

We had a rough night didn’t we, my boy?

I blame myself. Your actions weren’t acceptable, but I was too quick to anger. I didn’t have time to properly deal with the situation. Instead I said painful things and hurt your feelings. I know you struggle with your emotions, and I wasn’t sensitive to that. I’m sorry. You just wanted my time.

You’re only five years old and yet, I fear I’m passed the point of no return. Can we start over, my boy? Children often make mistakes. How else do you learn? And, so, as adults we are to practice grace with them. However, I believe God flipped the script on me. He gave me my boy to teach me what true grace looks like. The kind that can only be given from the heart of a child. A no strings attached, slate wiped clean kind of forgiveness that my boy shows me each new morning.

Regardless of who said what, did what or what road we traveled the day before, I still wake up to your tiny warm body stumbling sleepily across our creaky floorboards to crawl into our bed next to me for a cuddle before waking up. You fold in your rapidly growing limbs and somehow still fit so perfectly in the hollow space next to my stomach. Your first home. Somehow you still have that sweet baby breath.

And we lie there, quiet, still and just like that, no matter how many times I dismissed you, or nagged or counted to three the day before, you still want to meet me here, in my arms.

I am awoken with grace from my baby #2 each day and how blessed am I to be on the recieving end.