Syndrome Shmyndrone

I was instantly enamored with Lisa Simpson when she proclaimed, "Victory for the middle child!" after Marge sent her on a surprise visit to a camp for the performing arts.  I could relate to her joy, not only as a middle child myself, but also as mother to my middle child. While he had eight good years to be the youngest, I've always thought he was born a middle child, knowing somehow, even when the rest of us were unsure, that he would someday be sandwiched between two brothers. And while I oppose the general view that middle children get the short end of the stick, I still work hard to make sure he doesn't.

Happily, the last few days felt like a victory for our middle child, one I've stayed awake at night worrying that he would never join anything. First, he shared his sense of humor with his school community (and then some) in his school play.  I've never seen him so happy as he headed to the many hours of rehearsal and on stage, listened closely for his cue, and then put his whole body into his lines as Octavius in a child's version of Julius Caesar.

And then this morning, he jumped out of bed early for his first hockey class, a Learn-to-Play session where he finally gets to wear full gear and connect the stick to the puck. Wouldn't you know it, he fell as soon as he hit the ice, but he got right back up to join the rest of the players. Even with his caged mask, I sensed his satisfaction. One save, a goal, and an hour of drills later, he told me in the car that he could have skated all day. I couldn't ask for a better end to the class than that.

I am aware that the general population feels bad for the middle child. It looks like my middle child just might prove them all wrong.