Blame It on Birth Order?
Being a middle child may seem like a curse, but this writer isn't so sure.
- The author, left, with her siblings
At 11, I broke my sister's wax giraffe. It had been a souvenir, fresh from the Mold-A-Rama machine at the county zoo. I can't remember why I did it—maybe because I wanted the giraffe too, but she chose it first. She was the older sister. She always went first.
At 13, I hit her with a boar bristle brush. Again, I can't remember why. Had I wanted to use her hairdryer? Borrow a dress? Who knows? Regardless, she hit me back, resulting in an unspoken truce—at least for the rest of that morning.
As we got older, the fighting didn't stop but it evolved, becoming less physical and more psychological. I told my sister that she was fat—she wasn't—and called her Flabby Gabby. When she put on a bathing suit, I sang a song called "The Queen of Cellulite."