Separate and Equally Loved

I've got a problem with people who think that the middle child gets the shaft. I'm the middle child, and I happen to know I'm the favorite, so take that, believers in birth order characteristics. (Okay, feel free to interpret that statement as one suffering from middle child syndrome, if you must.) As a mother, I have absolutely no favorites. In fact, I could post in a three day rotation of odes to each of my three boys because my love for each of them would inspire years of writing if I thought an audience would care to read it. But my hunch is that the best audience for that adoration is my sons, and since they only occasionally read my Teacher Town posts over my shoulder, I will save my over-the-moon love letters for their baby books.

Meanwhile, I can't help but capture this evening with my son in the middle. The baby was snug in his bed by 7:30 p.m; my oldest was off devouring spaghetti and meatballs in preparation for his first regatta tomorrow; my husband, a wine guy, was pouring at a wine shop. My ten-year-old and I sat down to our own dinner on this quiet Friday evening, and we covered a wide range of topics, including tests, friends, substitute teachers, pre-school fire drills, baby vultures,  and even bullying. At one point he told me someone in his class called a classmate a "poop face". The same kid "must be close with the principal because he gets sent to his office at least once a week". This extended to my questions about fifth graders, who by his interpretation, need to be watched. As he ate his final meatball, he said, "You're really bulldozing my social life." I took note of both the warning and the use of figurative language. All was well when he gave me a tour of two elaborate Lego constructions and he bulldozed my own sense of good vs. evil by asking me which side would defeat the other. I'm usually wrong about such things, but I think that's part of the experience. He just seems to enjoy having the time to set me straight.