The Poem That Changed My Life: Revisited

     Back in July of 2013, I told the story of how I found out I was a Middle Child in a post titled “Poetic Injustice: The Poem That Changed My Life.” There’s no father son chat about the birds and bees and Middle Children. It’s not the kind of thing someone actually tells you. You don’t get a certified letter in the mail or anything. Nobody presents you with a certificate. You kind of just figure it out, and of course by the time you do, the damage is already done. In my case, I found out via a poem.
     You know how poetry can really touch your heart? Well, this poem punched me in the face. My mother had clipped it out from some woman’s magazine and taped it to the kitchen wall in the house I grew up in where it stayed until I was full grown adult. So I saw this thing all the time. It was called “Middle Children,” written by Mary Margret Milbrae.

LISTEN to the poem

     In my previous post, I offered a thorough analysis of the poem and my many issues with it. I came to the conclusion that this poem did not at all accurately capture the essence of what it means to be a Middle Child. At least not my experience as a Middle Child.
     After all these years of this poem haunting me, I couldn’t take it anymore. I spoke about all of this on Episode 2 of “Pay No Attention to this Podcast.” Most people took the title of my podcast literally, however, so they never heard it. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the smartest name for a podcast, but I digress...
     I had finally had enough. I had to put the ghost of that poem to rest. So I wrote my own Middle Child Poem. A poetic rebuttal, if you will.
     So, take that Mary Margret Milbrae.

 LISTEN to the poem

Special thanks to Eleanor Handley and Michael Satow for their beautiful readings. 

Neither are Middle Children, so that was very magnanimous of them. And a bit surprising.

"What Did They Do to You?"

          I was in the kitchen with my wife the other day, desperately seeking praise for something I had done that I thought was worthy of more fuss, when my wife looked at me and asked, “What did they do to you?” I can understand her asking. Something must have happened to me in my childhood that would cause the need to be lauded just because I helped her chop some chicken salad, she reasoned. It couldn’t just be because I’m a Middle Child.
          Of course I knew instantly who “they” were: my parents. But I don’t blame them for my chronic Middle Child Syndrome. Well, maybe a little. I mean, there is total agreement with my brother and sister as to who my parents’ favorites were. My brother was my father’s and my sister was my mother’s. Second place wasn’t as clear cut. I definitely got a bronze medal from my father, but I might have eked out a silver from my mother.
          Please don’t misunderstand. In no way was I mistreated by my parents. My brother and sister weren’t given things that I wasn’t. Other than attention. They weren’t awarded any special treatment by my parents. At least not that I’m aware of. My parents just didn’t have great favorite child poker faces. They were easy to read. Sure, there was that Middle Child poem my mother had taped to the kitchen wall in the house I grew up in. But I’m pretty sure that was just a decoy intended to throw me off.
          In order to avoid reliving this same problem with my own children, and especially my Middle Child, I have always been very careful to follow a very simple strategy. I simply act like I can’t stand any of them.
          By the way, I really am a very good chicken salad chopper.

Hear more at “Pay No Attention to this Podcast:”

My brother & sister confirm who were the favorites (at 17:50 mins)

A discussion of the Middle Child poem, and a rewrite (at 4:00 mins)

Poetic Injustice: The Poem That Changed My Life

       I can’t tell you when it was I came to the realization that I was a Middle Child, but I can tell you exactly where it was: right in the kitchen of the house I grew up in. That is where my mother taped this poem to a wall. It stayed taped there for over 30 years. They don’t make Scotch Tape like that anymore. I always found it ironic, because I’m pretty sure my mother stuck it there to make me feel better about being a Middle Child, but until I saw that poem, I never really even thought of myself as one, or that it was something I might feel badly about. I certainly didn’t think there was anything poem-worthy about it. So why all the fuss? Why the poem? What was it about being a Middle Child that made us so "special" we even came with our own syndrome?
      There weren’t any “First Born Son” or “Baby Girl” poems taped to the wall, and that was weird. There was no doubt my brother was my father’s favorite child. My sister, “Daddy’s  Girl,” was a close second. I had a lock on the Bronze medal, a distant third -- but it wasn’t so clear cut with my mother. While it was obvious my sister was her favorite, I thought maybe, just maybe, I might have an outside chance of eking out a second place finish with her.